The above is the title of a story which on Monday next and every succeeding first day of the week for the next few months will appear in the in the columns of the "Evening Express." The author has dealt with that most fascinating of all subjects "the detective," and his skill in weaving round that interesting personage an extremely thrilling and interesting story we will leave to our readers to decide upon. What we specially would draw attention to is the fact that our new serial will be unique in that it deals entirely with incidents the scenes of which are laid in Cardiff and the neighbourhood. This the first adventure of Mickey Morgan, the detective, is entitled, "The Penarth Robbery," and extremely exciting is the narrative which tells of the stealing of valuable jewels from the house of a retired colonel residing at the seaside town. The writer is J. Loughmore, author of "The Bells of Castle Grange," "Miss Moonlight," &c., and the translator of Jules Claretie's famous novel, "The Fugitive."

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       Trade had been hard the whole day for little Mickey Morgan. The market in the retail match trade had fallen by leaps and bounds — first a penny a box, next two for threehalfpence, and finally a halfpenny each. Even at this ruinous price there was little or no demand, everyone seeming to have been supplied with these useful articles, or to have suddenly become converted to the tenets of the anti-Tobacco Society. In the newspaper trade business was almost as bad. Things were in a distrustingly quiet state in Cardiff. The "Express" did not contain a single murder or divorce case, or assault. Shebeening seemed to have come suddenly to an end, and on this particular day the teetotalers and county councillors refrained from making fools of themselves. Even the Marquess of Bute was not attacked, and, being the summer season, the players and patronisers of the noble game of football had entered into the usual comatose or lethargic state. There was no news at all calculated to rouse the least interest amongst the coaly Cardiffians, and poor Mickey Morgan was driven to extremities. He had to choose between a deliberate breaking of one of the Commandments or passing the night in the open air. He had a great reverence for the Commandments. Some of them he knew, by sad experience, were difficult to keep, but hitherto lie had gone no further than giving one or two of them a crack. "Thou shalt not steal," mused Mickey, "but thou shalt go to bed hungry or not to bed at all, or go to Thingumbob's Home."

       He did not like "homes"; they cramped his genius, and interfered too much with the liberty of the subject. It was now getting towards eleven o'clock, and a decision would have to be arrived at soon. Mickey had threepence, which he would gladly have expended in a loaf. His stomach strongly urged him to adopt this course; but, on the other hand, the question of how to pass the night had to be faced, and he knew that without those three coins it would be useless for him to present himself at his lodgings in Temperancetown. His parents had long been dead, but until a few weeks before the day on which we present him to the reader he had found refuge in the home of an old friend and compatriot of his mother. His friend had now left Cardiff, and Mickey was thrown entirely on his own resources. Since the departure of his friend he had been lodging in the house of a not very amiable lady, whose ancestors at one time lived beyond the Jordan. Hitherto the threepence for his bed had always been forthcoming, and our hero, who was a philosopher and a keen judge of human nature, knew very well that Rebecca would spurn with indignation any suggestion as to letting her beds on the deferred payment system. He walked slowly along Bute-street without having any definite destination in view. It was with halting steps he managed to crawl past the bread shops, the attractions inside being almost irresistible. A "faggot" shop nearly drove him to despair, suggesting to his hungry imagination the delights of a Lord Mayor's banquet. The next baker's shop he met he gave in. He was afraid of succumbing to the superior attractions of the "faggot." This was not a night for luxuries, and the morrow would have to be thought of.

       His hunger satisfied, the question of how to pass the night had to be faced and decided on immediately. The weather was cloudy, not to say chilly, and the sky presented every appearance of rain. It would scarcely do, then, to lie in the open, but where could a shelter be found? Like many great men and philosophers before him, Mickey found he could think out a subject best whilst walking, so he continued his journey along Bute-street.

       But suddenly he stopped, and turned in the other direction.

       "Well, Mickey Morgan, you are a fool and no mistake," said he to himself. "Why in the world did you not think of it before? 'Tis the very identical place; for you to stop the night without braking the least little bit of a commandment."

       Having decided what to do, he increased his pace and went on towards the Great Western Station, which he found on the occasion conveniently quiet. Down a siding his quick eye detected a solitary railway carriage, and thither, keeping cautiously in the shade, he directed his steps.

       "I guess," said he, speaking now with an American accent, which he considered fitted in more appropriately with the peculiar importance of the occasion, "I guess this is going to be my hotel for the night."

       He selected a second-class compartment, not being, as he said himself, proud. After due consideration, he decided. that for the present it would be advisable to ensconse himself underneath the seat. There's no telling, he observed, what these inquisitive porters might be up to. He had half-a-dozen papers left, and these he quickly converted into a pillow. They deserved even a worse fate at his hands he thought. Mickey was a great reader, and had already formed his own opinions on many questions of the day. He was a pronounced Trades Unionist, and had distinct ideas as to the utility of the division of labour. This latter problem now began to engage his attention. Though very tired, he did not yet feel sleepy. In any case, he considered it better to keep awake until such time as he might with safety ascend to the top of the seat.

       "Why should we boys," thought he, "not have our Trades Union? And why should we not go in for division of labour? Now, 'tis very plain that, without murder or a divorce or a scandal of some kind, a paper is of little use as an article of commerce. Would it not, then, be possible, under proper organisation, to have a number of boys set aside for the special work of committing such outrages as would create a readier demand for the newspapers? 'Twould accord," he felt sure, "with every principle of commercial economy." But, then, here came in the awkward question of the Commandments, and he had ultimately to come to the conclusion that his projects in this direction would have to be abandoned, showing himself to be, in the domain of ethics, far in advance of the ordinary commercial man of his day.

       But, in spite of his speculations, he found himself at last going off to sleep, and was about to take up a more comfortable position on the cushioned seat when the carriage gave a sudden jerk, and the next moment was in motion. "Here's a go," said Mickey; "they're going to take me somewhere — to rock me to sleep. But I won't mind if they only have the politeness to reserve the carriage to me. I have a strong objection to unknown fellow-passengers, particularly at night time."

       The next moment the carriage stopped in the station, and, greatly to his relief, our hero heard the word "Penarth" shouted by a porter. Directly afterwards two passengers entered and silently took their seats under the lamp. Mickey cautiously peeped out, observing to himself that he'd bet the half-dozen pinks which formed his pillow that they were "two villuns." The train moved on, and the "villuns" began to speak.

       "Where have you left the bicycles?" asked one.

       "Oh, they're quite safe inside the hedge of that empty house in Blank-street; will have no trouble in finding them."

       "I suppose Bob quite understood your instructions. We must, ride like h—–, and put in an appearance at the club before it clones."

       Mickey Morgan's heart began to beat quicker. What did they want to hide like h—– for, and for what did they want to put in an appearance at the club? To prove an alibi, he concluded. It could not be for booze, for each of them had produced well-filled flasks before the train had started.

       "Will give the papers something to talk about to-morrow," said one of the conspirators. Both wore long beards; a very suspicious circumstance, in the opinion of the unseen watcher. "I wonder are those beards real or theatre beards. I should so like to try." And if the train had not suddenly pulled up in the Penarth Station his curiosity and his fearlessness were such that be would probably have attempted to solve his doubts.

       In the crowd he did not find much difficulty in passing through without a ticket, and was able to keep on the track of his two fellow-passengers. At first they went quietly along the promenade, but, halfway up met a sailor-looking fellow, with whom they entered into conversation. Mickey, keeping in the shadow of the houses, was able to approach them unperceived. He was only able to hear one sentence, but that to his excited imagination was brimful of suggestion.

       "You need have no fear; they've all been in bed two hours," observed the sailor.

       The other two turned back and ascended the hill opposite the pier, going on quietly till they came to "The Mount," the handsome residence of Colonel Dimsdale. There under the shadow of the trees they stopped a moment and looked cautiously round. On the way up our hero noticed one of the men point to an empty house, and, seeing a thick edge running in front of the lawn, he concluded that there was the hiding-place of the bicycles. As afterwards appeared, he was quite correct in his surmise.

       The two conspirators now entered Colonel Dimsdale's lawn, and, whilst one remained close to the gate in the shadow of a large elm, the other went towards the side door of the house. Immediately afterwards he heard the sound of a window opening, and, deciding that there could be no further doubt, went off in search of a policeman.

       As we have already declared, Mickey Morgan was a philosopher, and he knew that a policeman being at that moment needed the chances were ten to one that nearer than the police-station no policeman could be found. So to the station he at once directed his steps. He hurriedly explained the state of affairs to the sergeant whom he found in charge, but that functionary received his story with the utmost incredulity. Instead of believing him he appeared to look upon him as an emissary sent to decoy the police in one direction, whilst some housebreaking operations were being carried on in another. But the sergeant did not know his man. Just then an inspector came in.

       "I tell you," said Mickey, almost screaming in his excitement, "that at this moment there is a burglar inside The Mount. If you don't send at once I'll have the papers down upon you in the morning, and lose your shop."

       The sergeant still smiled, but did not like Mickey's allusion to the papers. He did not love newspapers — at any rate, as enemies — so he temporised. But the inspector to whom Mickey turned was impressed with the earnestness of the lad, and declared his intention of accompanying him to the scene of the alleged robbery.

       "Be sure to bring a revolver with you," advised our hero.

       They started out at once, going by another and shorter route. But when they came, to The Mount the birds had flown. Everything remained quiet, and the inspector, venting his wrath upon Mickey, was about to return, when he noticed that one of the windows was only partially closed. Further observation convinced him that it had recently been opened, and, as he was a generous fellow, he at once apologised to our hero.

       "I beg your pardon, my little man," he said. "I believe you are right."

       He then lifted up the window and entered. In a few minutes Mickey heard the sound of voices, after which the door was opened, and Colonel Dimsdale, attired in a dressing-gown, appeared. Mickey entered, and accompanied the colonel and the inspector through the house. A robbery had been committed; plate, jewellery, and other articles had disappeared. But where were the robbers?

       Mickey Morgan, who was a born detective, reminded the inspector that he was losing valuable time.

       Their bicycles are hid half a mile further down; let's go on there."

       The official acquiesced, and the two went in the direction of the empty house. Arriving there, to his delight, our hero found the bicycles still undisturbed.

       He seemed now, as if by natural right, to assume the leadership in the affair.

       "Let us wait here in the shadow, sir," he said, "they'll be sure to come for the bicycles."

       Some ten minutes passed, and there was no sound. The excitement of waiting was telling terribly on our hero. This inaction was not at all to his taste, but the inspector kept a firm grip on his collar. At length they heard the sound of footsteps rapidly, but quietly, approaching. The inspector had the handcuffs ready. He now bitterly regretted that he had not brought another man with him.

       The two bearded men came along and stopped at the gate. The inspector stepped out and laid a hand on the foremost. "The game is up," he said, you may as well come quietly."

       They were a cool pair, and looked at the officer in apparent perplexity.

       "Come where, officer? What in the world do you mean?" asked one.

       "Oh, you know very well what I mean. You are accused of robbing Colonel Dimsdale's house this very night. Come along; my men are at hand."

       "Do you know who we are, inspector? You will have to pay dearly for this outrage. Here is my card —

Samuel Solens.
	Solicitor, Cardiff.

I have taken this house to-day, and this gentleman is Mr. Harkin, the well-known painter and decorator, who is going to do it, up for me."

       Mr. Harkins also produced his card. The inspector was new to the district, and looked perplexed.

       "Are these the men?" asked our hero.

       "The very two, sir. I could swear to them anywhere."

       "Inspector, you have our cards. If you don't let us at once proceed about our business I tell you that your reign in Penarth will come to a sudden end," said the pretended solicitor.

       The inspector looked doubtful, and might easily have let the two get away had not Mickey made a sudden grab at the beard of the painter and decorator, and brought it off in his hand.

       "You infernal little limb of h—–," shouted that individual, seizing him by the collar, but Mickey quickly slipped out of his coat. The next moment there was a dull thud, and the representative of the law fell senseless to the ground. Our hero, quick as lightning, jumped behind the hedge, and, pulling out his pocket-knife, slashed viciously at the tyres of the bicycles. He was only just in time. The two burglars were after him. But they might as well have chased a rabbit. He quickly glided through a small hole in the hedge, and the next moment, seizing the inspector's whistle, he blew three or four blasts, which must have spoken of the utmost urgency to two police-constables who at the time dill not happen to be far off.

       They came up at a run, and in a very short time, assisted by our hero, who managed to trip one of the robbers just as he was mounting his disabled machine, the two were securely handcuffed.

       By this time the inspector had recovered consciousness, and was as surprised as delighted on seeing the two prisoners safely arrested, and on learning the part our hero had taken in the affair.

       Arrived at the station they were searched, but not the least compromising document or article was found in their possession.

       Having securely locked up his prisoners, the inspector, in accordance with a promise given to Colonel Dimsdale, returned to that gentleman's house, taking our hero with him.

       The whole household was now aroused, and the full extent of the robbery ascertained. A thousand pounds, the colonel said, would not cover his loss.

       The inspector expressed a confident hope that in the morning they would be able to trace the missing property. But the morning came and several other mornings without his being able to find the least trace of it.

       Then our hero thought he would take a further hand in the affair.

No. 2 WILL GIVE AN ACCOUNT OF THE
RECOVERY OF THE MISSING PROPERTY.

(TO BE CONTINUED ON MONDAY NEXT.)

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       The night of the robbery Mickey Morgan slept at Colonel Dimsdale's house. He was given a whole bedroom to himself and a whole bed — and such a bed. Ye Gods! Was ever the like seen before! Scarcely had he thrown himself into it than he jumped up in alarm. It seemed to be alive; it trembled and vibrated beneath him, as if resenting his intrusion. He looked at it critically, and felt it all over with his hands before he dare venture in again. But the discovery of the wire mattress at length satisfied him that all was square, and that he might with safety trust himself between the sweet smelling sheets.

       The colonel had promised him a reward, and, tired as he was, he began to speculate as to how much it would be. Five "bob" most likely, he thought. But who could tell; maybe, he would give him a quid, and, if he did, oh! wouldn't he cut a dash along St. Mary-street! There wouldn't be such another newsboy in Cardiff. He would buy the best second-hand suit of clothes to be had in Bridge-street or the Wyndham Arcade, and make every other boy jealous of him, particularly Sam Williams, who was always plaguing him about his shabby clothes. Oh! wouldn't Sam stare when he saw him. But, then, there was little Willie Jenkins, who was worse off than he. He would have to share with Willie, who was smaller, and, like himself, an orphan. Yes, whatever happened, Willie should have half, and he was sure that, if the case was reversed, Willie would act in the same way towards him.

       The "quid" he calculated would be quite sufficient to provide two suits of clothes and leave a small margin for trade purposes. How pleased Willie would be.

       With his mind full of the prospective happiness of his friend our hero fell fast asleep.

       When he awoke it was broad daylight. At first he could not realise where he was, but the vibration of the wire mattress beneath him brought back the affairs of the previous night, and with it thoughts of the promised reward and Willie Jenkins. Before deciding to rise he shut his eyes in order to be able to conjure up more clearly a sight of his friend's face when he offered him the half-sovereign.

       "I wonder will he think I've stolen it?"

       But no; Willie knew him too well to suppose that he could steal.

       Whilst thus meditating Colonel Dimsdale quietly entered the room. When Mickey opened his eyes he found those of the old gentleman kindly, but quizzically, bent upon him.

       "Good morning, my little man; how have you slept?"

       "Oh, splendid, sir — never slept so well before."

       "The bed suited you, eh? But, come now, walk into the bath and give yourself a good scrubbing. I've a new rig out for you from top to toe, my lad."

       He found his new apparel waiting him in the bath-room, and when afterwards he looked at himself in the large mirror he started back in amazement. He could scarcely believe it was himself. It seemed to be some young gentleman staring at him.

       Mickey was really a very handsome boy, and inherited not a little natural refinement from both parents. His father had been once in a very good position, but fell very low, and ultimately died through drink. His mother was an Irishwoman, of a respectable family, whose misfortunes drove her to accept the place of nurse in the house of a gentleman residing in Cardiff. She was very pretty, and had not been long in the Welsh metropolis when Harry Morgan fell in love with her, and made her his wife. He had already began his downward course when he got married. His wife, Norah, was able to pull him up for a bit, but he eventually gave way, and, as we have said, shortened his days by drink. His wife did not long survive him.

       Mickey was now more than fifteen years of age, and in his new clothes looked a boy that any parents might feel proud of. So thought Colonel Dimsdale as he saw him emerge from the bath-room and so thought Miss Dimsdale, to whom he was at once presented. She had breakfast ready for him, and, to his secret confusion, waited upon him herself. And such a breakfast as he had — bacon and eggs and bread and butter and jam! True, the bread was cut ridiculously thin, but this defect he was able to remedy by joining three pieces in one. Miss Dimsdale watched him with amusement, and encouraged him to make an arrant glutton of himself. When he had finished she asked him his name and all particulars as to his people, and his means of living. Then the colonel came in again and asked him what he would like as a reward for his brave conduct on the previous night. Mickey, rather shyly, said he would like to keep the new clothes.

       "Of course, you will keep them, my boy; but I must give you something else. What shall it be?"

       "Please, sir, I don't want anything more myself, but my chum, Willie Jenkins, has very bad clothes, and I think he would be ashamed to be seen with me when mine are so good. Could you give him a suit of clothes too, sir?"

       "Yes, Mickey, he also shall have a suit of clothes. But about yourself. Would you not like to live here with us? We can find plenty for you to do about the house and the garden. You know how to black boots, for instance?"

       "No, sir; but Willie Jenkins does. He often blacks boots, and he's smaller than me, and wouldn't eat so much."

       The colonel and his daughter looked at each other, and smiled.

       "But, my dear lad," said the young lady, "we want to do something for you yourself. Never mind Willie Jenkins for the present".

       "But I should like to see him now, miss. He'll think I'm lost, and will be looking everywhere for me."

       "Oh, very well," said the colonel. "There's five shillings for you, and go and fetch Willie Jenkins here. But you must be back quickly, for you will have to give evidence in the court."

       Very sedately, Mickey marched through the front door, but as soon as he got into the road he gave a war whoop and nude off towards the station at the rate of ten miles an hour. Then he remembered his new clothes, and thought it unbecoming in one of his respectability to present too frisky an aspect to the public. With becoming gravity he purchased his ticket, and, after ascertaining that he had ten minutes to spare, went in search of a tobacco shop, being determined that no detail calculated to rouse the envy and enmity of big Sam Williams should be wanting. He knew that at this hour he would find his friend Willie in Bute-road, but he determined to reach that street by way of St. Mary-street and Queen's-street. Holding his cigarette then in the most approved fashion, he walked up the leading thoroughfare, and, sure enough, met Sam Williams, whose language at the sight of the transformed Mickey Morgan, we dare not venture to set down here. Sam was really a bully and very envious, not to say dishonest. He at once assumed, or pretended to believe, that our hero's clothes had been stolen, and threatened to inform the police. Mickey, who knew what Sam was capable of, beat a hasty retreat, and went directly to look up his friend Willie Jenkins. The two journeyed on to Penarth together, but when our hero had given his evidence and the two burglars had been remanded for a week he determined to avoid a further interview with Colonel Dimsdale. He decided it would be better for his friend's interest to send him there alone, with a special note of recommendation from himself. As we have already stated, he was a great reader, and, though his handwriting left much to be desired, his spelling was, generally, correct. The following was his note to the colonel:—

       "Dear Sir, — This little boy is Willie Jenkins. He is a very good little boy, and doesn't, curse or steal, and can black boots splendid. Please, sir, I do not like to black boots, as I think if my mother was alive she would not like it. Please, sir, will you give the new clothes to Willie, and let him black the boots. He says he would like it. — Yours truly,

"MICHAEL MORGAN."      

       That evening the Cardiff papers came out with a full account of the robbery, and Micky Morgan saw his own name mentioned several times. But very few of the general public knew him by name, so that he became less of a hero than might have been expected. One or two of his customers, however, questioned him about his clothes, and then the story came out. He found these recitals more profitable even than newspaper selling, as his auditors generally rewarded him with a couple of coppers.

       Every morning he scanned the papers to see if the missing property had been found, and great was his disgust to find day after day slipping by without the police being able to find the least trace. At last, one night, he lost all patience, and determined to go in search of the property himself. "They want new blood in the police: that's what they want," said he, unconsciously quoting from some penny dreadful.

       Remembering that his last night's journey to Penarth brought him luck, he determined on this occasion also to go there by night, purchasing his ticket, of course, like any ordinary member of the British public. He had heard nothing of Willie Jenkins, but presumed he was comfortably settled at Colonel Dimsdale's house. It was too late when he reached Penarth to go and see his friend, even if he had been so inclined. But he was still afraid the colonel might want him to start cleaning boots, so he determined to give The Mount a wide berth.

       Having no definite plan in view, he started to walk up and down the esplanade, contentedly puffing away at a cigarette. He was not an habitual smoker, and it was not from any acquired taste for the weed that in these last few days he was often seen with a cigarette in his mouth. Wisely or unwisely, he had come to the conclusion that only a cigarette could give such a finishing touch to his appearance as would make the new and aristocratic garments he had lately assumed sit naturally upon him. Without the cigarette he felt more self-conscious, and had a feeling that everyone who looked at him was aware of the fact that he was not much accustomed to fine feathers. With a cigarette he felt more at ease, and, small as it was, he could hide himself and his inward perturbation behind it.

       The weather was beautifully fine and warm, and he had made up his mind to pass the night on the sands — or what passes for sands — at Penarth. By the first morning's light he determined to reconnoitre the whole ground, and see if he could not throw some light on this question of the Dimsdale plate. The prisoners were to be brought before the magistrates again in the morning, and it would go hard with him if he could not bring forward a little more evidence than was forthcoming on the first occasion. As he was thinking thus his heart gave a sudden bound, for surely, almost beside him, he heard the voice of the sailor who had spoken to the two burglars on the night of the robbery. Looking down on the shingle beneath, he caught sight of two figures sitting in the shadow of the embankment. Laying down quietly, he strained his ears to the fullest tension and listened.

       "My own opinion," said one, "is that they will be liberated. The evidence of the kid will not be enough to convict them, particularly as so far the authorities have found nothing else out against them."

       "As far as I am concerned," said the other, "I should not be sorry if they got five years, though I would not like to do anything personal against them. The booty is large, and would be more satisfactory if halved instead of being quartered — what do you say?"

       "No; I'm for doing the square thing. They have taken most of the risk, and they deserve their share. When I proposed the job to you you were not willing to take any active part in the affair. Only for that meddling kid we might each have had our share already. You or I, unfortunately, know nothing about disposing of the swag, and it is only an encumbrance to us just now. If they don't get off to-morrow we must bury it until their release."

       It was plain from this, then, that the stolen property was in the possession of these two men, and that it was not yet hidden away.

       They moved on quietly in the direction of a boat which was moored lower down at the margin of the water, and our hero more quietly followed them, taking care to keep as much as possible out of sight.

       He noticed that the two bent down over the boat for a moment as if examining something, and then, apparently satisfied, directed their steps once more in the direction of the promenade.

       "I think," said Mickey, '"I'll have a look at that boat. I guess it must belong to one or other of these boys."

       "Once aboard the lugger and the girl is yours," he quoted, as he stepped into the boat. At one end his keen eye noticed a locker very securely fastened. "Now," thought he, "I think I will sleep in the enemy's camp to-night and see what the morning may bring forth."

       He had a habit of quoting from the books he had read whenever he found himself in any dramatic situation. At the bottom of the boat he found a sail, which he quickly improvised into a bed, being ample enough to serve as mattress, blanket, and counterpane. True it was not so luxurious as Colonel Dimsdale's bed, but he found it served him very well, and it was much cheaper than one of Rebecca's, and entirely free from those disagreeable little bed-fellows which that ancient dame looked upon as the natural concomitants of her threepence-a-night beds.

       He was soon asleep, and never woke until the sun was about to make his appearance the following morning. He was in a very pleasant dream when a rough hand took him by the shoulder and dragged him from beneath the sail; then a voice, which by this time he knew very well, exclaimed, "By the Lord, Bob; 'tis the kid himself. We're in luck, and the beaks and the bobbies may whistle for their witness. Come forward, my little beauty, I'm delighted to see you, and so very glad to look at you, indeed, that I won't prosecute you for trespass, which I might very easily do."

       The tide was now in, and the boat was almost afloat. A few pushes drove it into deep water, and Bob and his companion took the oars and began to row with all their might.

       "Where are you taking me to?" asked Mickey Morgan, with some concern.

       "Where are we taking you to? To join the little fishes and the mermaids, my young hopeful, my youthful detective; or to join your daddy and mammy amongst the angels. You won't be sorry to see them, eh?"

       Mickey looked closely into the faces of his two companions, and did not like what he saw there. He knew they would show him no mercy, and that if he ever reached the shore alive it would only be by his own exertions. He was a good swimmer, and began to look out for an opportunity of making a plunge for it, but Bob seemed to divine his intentions, for he quickly pulled him into the middle of the boat, making him lie down like a log of wood at the bottom. After a while the rowing stopped, and his eyes were firmly bound with a handkerchief, and his arms fastened to his sides. Then he felt himself lifted up and deposited on some hard substance; he knew not what nor he knew not where.

       Later on, when the great case was about to be called in the court, Mickey Morgan was nowhere to be found. Colonel Dimsdale and the police inspector were in consternation. Messengers were despatched in all directions to find him, but no information beyond the fact that he had not slept at his usual lodgings could be obtained. Foul play was at once thought of, but for the moment every one was helpless. The inspector got the magistrates' clerk to put the case the last on the list, in the hopes, that at the last moment our hero might turn up. He knew that without Mickey's evidence the charge of robbery could not be sustained, though he might still hold them for the assault committed on himself.

       The affair had excited considerable interest, and the court was crowded; but as case after case was called and leisurely dealt with, the public began to suspect that some hitch had taken place. At length all the other cases had been dealt with, and Samuel Solens and James Harkins were called.

       The police had, of course, by this time found out that these were assumed names, or, at any rate, that the prisoners were not what they represented themselves to be; but they had failed in tracing their identity. The inspector, with a somewhat forlorn aspect, began to explain the state of affairs to the magistrates, and to ask for a further remand. Things were looking desperate, indeed, for the police case, and Colonel Dimsdale was as nervous as an old soldier could ever allow himself to be, when our hero, with bare legs and feet, and the upper portion of his body covered with a seaman's jersey, rushed into the court. He carried a bag on his shoulders, which with a loud noise he dropped at Colonel Dimsdale's feet.

       "Here are your things, sir and a hard job I had to get them."

       There was a loud cheer in the court, which the magistrates, in the excitement of the moment, did not attempt to suppress.

       But we had better tell things in their order. At this time there was lying outside Penarth an old sailing ship, which had been sold to a local contractor for breaking up. Bob and his companion were two men brought down from Birkenhead to begin the preliminary work of dismounting the boat, and they sometimes slept aboard. It was to this doomed vessel that our hero was carried on this particular morning, and on which it was intended that he should meet his fate. Both men had been guilty of various robberies in the neighbourhood of Rock Ferry, and it was when things became too warm for them in that direction that they heard of the employment at Penarth. The two prisoners had been their accomplices in many a well-planned robbery in the North, and hitherto had been able to keep out of the hands of the police.

       Bob Summers and Harry Swindills, the two workmen, were two of the most unscrupulous scoundrels unhung — vindictive and cruel to a degree; and, now that they had got poor Mickey Morgan in their clutches were determined, not only to make an end of him, but before they gave the coup de grace to take it out of him warmly for his interference in their affairs. They rightly judged that had it not been for him, their first stroke of business would have come off with eclat and, in all probability, have been the forerunner of many similar transactions. As it was, with him out of the way, there was still hopes of profitable business in and around Cardiff.

       Bob stripped him naked, still keeping his eyes and hands bound, and began to apply a rope to his back. Poor Mickey screamed, but the two scoundrels laughed horribly, and kept on the flogging. But by a great effort Mickey got one hand loose, quickly pulled the bandage from his eyes, ran up the cabin steps like a cat, and, with a bound, jumped into the boat below. The two were quickly in pursuit, but before they could reach the boat Mickey, by the aid of an oar, had pushed off, having quickly and dexterously untied the rope which bound it. Summers made a leap towards the boat, but fell short, and before lie could do anything a smart crack on the head from the oar in Mickey's hands sent him to the bottom. The sail had been hoisted on the way out, and now with the wind very luckily towards the shore he was able to make good his escape. By the aid of a bar of iron which he found in the boat he was able, to break open the locker, in which he found a bag containing the stolen property and the jersey in which we saw him attired in the court.

       Arriving there he quickly explained the state of affairs to the inspector, and that functionary at once despatched four of his men to the vessel. Bob Summers was arrested, but his companion had never risen to the surface after the blow administered by our hero, and was, presumably, drowned.

       At the assizes afterwards the other three got long terms of imprisonment.

       But, in the meantime, Mickey Morgan had become a hero; the magistrates complimented him. Colonel Dimsdale rewarded him, and offered to look after his future, and, best of all, a London firm of private detectives, with an agency in Cardiff, offered him very excellent terms to enter into their employ. Mickey accepted, add at once entered on that career in which he afterwards attained to such fame.

No. 3. — THE KIDNAPPING OF HARRY SIMMONS
WILL APPEAR TO-MORROW.

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       Dr. Simmons was a well-known practitioner in Cardiff. He was favourably known for the great attention he paid to his patients, and when Providence one day sent him a son, it was only in the ordinary course of things that the youthful scion of the house of Simmons should receive more than ordinary attention during those periods of infantile illnesses to which baby flesh is heir. Young Harry, whether by reason, or in spite of parental coddling, grew up a thoroughly healthy lad, and, like most healthy lads, was a little wild and inclined to be independent. When his medical adviser receipted a romp in the Sofia Gardens, Harry put his father down as the wisest of doctors, but when on wet days the same authority prescribed a dose of close confinement he would entertain serious doubts as to the fitness of his parent to be entrusted with the charge of a youth like himself. Harry was only eight, but already showed a strong disposition towards arguing points to their logical conclusion.

       "Is it not ridiculous," he would remark to his nurse, "to say that if I go out in the rain I shall catch my death of cold, when every morning you dab me into a bath and wet me all over and I don't catch any cold? The rain water is no worse than bath water that I can see, and I'll just go out as often as I can."

       As may be supposed his opportunities of carrying out this threat were numerous, and availed of to a greater extent than his father was ever aware, Mrs. Simmons was, unfortunately, an invalid — more than half her time confined to her bedroom — so that when the doctor was absent on his professional rounds Harry had only his nurse to contend with, and was generally able to shape his own course. He had no brother or sister to play with, so, reasonably enough, cultivated the society of somebody else's brothers and sisters. His favourite companion was a certain Jack Williams, who lived about a mile away, and, as this promising youth was not high enough in the social scale to be admitted into the doctor's house, Harry had to visit Jack's humble domicile whenever inclination led towards indoor amusements. On fine days, of course, they met in the streets of the Sofia Gardens Field, but on rainy days they kicked up high jinks in Mrs. Williams's best parlour. That estimable lady was quite proud of such proceedings, and gave herself airs amongst her neighbours on account of the partiality shown towards her boy by the doctor's son.

       It had been raining heavily one day, and Jack Williams was meditating on the joylessness of the world, and in his solitary loneliness prepared to do something desperate to relieve the monotony, when Harry made a sudden appearance. But, unfortunately, on that day Mrs. Williams had a visitor in the shape of a delicate, nervous old aunt, who did not like boys, and would never allow them to speak above a whisper in her presence. For their part our two hopeful youths had a decided antipathy to aunts, and they soon found the state of affairs inside to be intolerable. In spite of the rain then they sallied forth, and, evidently with some definite object in view, marched at a quick rate along the South-road. An hour afterwards, looking perplexed and anxious, Jack Williams returned alone to his mother's house.

       Tea-time arrived at the doctor's residence, but Harry was absent. The nurse was in a state of abject alarm, looking out of the window every now and then as if by this means to hurry the appearance of the truant. But he did not come; and when, later on, Dr. Simmons asked for his boy, the nurse broke into a violent fit of crying, explaining between her sobs that she hadn't seen him for some hours, and that she was frightened, as he had never before failed to return in good time for tea. It was still raining, and the doctor supposed that the lad was waiting for finer weather before returning, so was not very anxious. But by the time tea was over the rain had abated, and there was still no sign of the boy. The nurse set out towards Engel-street, where Mrs. Williams lived, feeling pretty certain that he would be there, or that in any case Jack would be able to give an account of his movements. On the appearance of Emma, Jack blushed a fiery red, and almost choked himself in two hurried efforts to get rid of a mouthful of bread and jam, which at that moment he was eating.

       "Jack, you naughty boy," asked Emma, "where's Master Harry?"

       "How should I know, ma'am? At home, I suppose."

       "He is not at home, and you know it. What have you done with him?"

       Jack now turned pale, and looked at his mother as if to protect him from insult. But Mrs. Williams only joined in the cry.

       "Why don't you answer? You know Master Harry went out with you," she said.

       "Yes, mother; but he left me on the South-road, and I thought he had gone home."

       "Dear, dear," cried the poor nurse, again bursting into tears. "Poor Master Harry is murdered, and his father will go mad and kill us all."

       Jack looked really frightened, but it was easy enough to see he was puzzled as well.

       "I'll tell you all I know, ma'am," he cried, his appetite now all gone. "We walked up along the South-road until we came to the big wall outside the house they call Dyme Villa. Just there an old man overtook us and asked me if I would run an errand for him, and he'd give me sixpence. Of course, I said I would, if it wasn't too far. He then asked me to turn back a bit with him and he'd tell me where I had to go, but he wouldn't let Harry come with me, saying to him that I shouldn't be long, and that he must wait where he was. Harry didn't like to stop alone in the rain, but the old man said he wanted to speak to me and that he must not stir. When we'd gone a couple of hundred yards or so, I looked back, but Harry had gone. I was surprised, for there did not seem to be any place to hide in, and he couldn't have gone over the wall. I then wanted to turn back, but the old man wouldn't let me. He gave me sixpence and sent me to a bookseller's in St. Mary-street for 'Henton's Magazine.' When I got there I was told there was no such magazine published, and went back again as quickly as I could. But neither Harry nor the old man was anywhere in sight. I looked about in all directions, but couldn't find the least trace of them. Then I waited a good bit, but they didn't turn up. I asked two or three people if they had seen an old man or a little boy about, but no one had. Then I thought to myself Harry had gone home, and was just playing one of his tricks on me, so I kept the sixpence and didn't bother about the old man."

       Emma's state of mind was now worse than ever, and, as she returned to the doctor's house with Jack Williams beside her, her fears conjured up all kinds of impending calamities; she saw Harry brought home dead, and herself turned out of doors without a character or a home.

       In the meantime Dr. Simmons himself became very anxious, not to say alarmed, and went to question his wife in the hopes that she may have some explanation of his absence. He found no light in that quarter, however, but, on the contrary, increased anxiety, for Mrs. Simmons became almost hysterical when the matter was explained to her. As soon as Jack Williams arrived the doctor questioned him very closely, but could obtain no information beyond what had been already imparted to Emma. The police were next consulted, and one of the inspectors, accompanied by Jack, went to the place in North-road where the boy had last been seen, but things were found exactly as young Williams had stated. There was no possible hiding-place in sight, and, the road being perfectly straight, it was impossible for the boy to have run out of sight whilst Jack and the mysterious old man were traversing the short distance between that place and where Jack had looked round. The police inspector, not being able to account for matters otherwise, at once began to doubt the latter's story, and questioned him more closely.

       "You say the old man gave you sixpence — where is it?"

       "Here is fivepence of it, sir; I bought sweets with the other penny."

       "But that money was given to you to buy a book and not to spend."

       Yes; but when there was no book of the name, and the old man had gone when I came back, I thought he meant me to have the sixpence."

       "Perhaps, he did. But you haven't told me why you went out walking on such a rainy day, and why you chose the South-road."

       "We went out because my aunt wouldn't let us play inside, and because a man had told me he would show me and Harry some birds' nests if we met him that day on the South-road."

       "Oh! he did — did he? Was it the same man who gave you the sixpence?"

       "No, sir. He was much younger and taller, and had no beard."

       "Would you know him again?"

       "Oh, yes; I had seen him before once or twice."

       "Did he speak to you on these occasions?"

       "Yes, sir; he asked me if I was a companion of Harry Simmons, and where we generally went to play."

       "And what did you tell him?"

       "I told him we generally played in the Sofia Gardens, but sometimes went out towards Llandaff and other places bird-nesting."

       "And the last time he told you he would show you some birds' nests up the South-road. Did he tell you where?"

       "No, he said it was not far, but if we came along the left-hand side of the road at three o'clock to-day he would meet us, and show us the exact place. He also said we were not to go beyond Dyme Villa."

       "But why did you go away with the old man?"

       "I wanted the sixpence, and, besides, I thought I would be able to get back before three. But in any case, as it was so wet, I did not think the man would come."

       "And that is all you know?"

       "Not another word, sir, if I had to die for it."

       The officer went once more to Dr. Simmons's house, where he found matters in the same state. No word of the lad had been received, though messages had been despatched in all directions. Night came with the same result. When eleven o'clock had struck the doctor went to the newspaper offices, where he gave a full description of the missing boy, and the next morning the newspapers were full of the matter.

       When Mickey Morgan read the account in the "Western Mall" he went at once to his employer.

       "Have you seen this about Harry Simmons, sir? I know the boy — at least, I've often seen him when I took papers to his father — and I'd like you to let me look for him."

       "Easy, my boy. You are now a responsible private detective, and must not take up any cases unless specially commissioned to do so. However, you may keep your eyes open, and if the lad is not found in a day or two I may call upon the father."

       But a week passed, and alive or dead no trace of Harry Simmons could be found. Day Dy day the local papers devoted considerable space to this mysterious question, without being able to throw any light upon it. At length Dr. Simmons paid a visit to Mr. Norman, our hero's employer, and commissioned him to take up the case. In the meantime Mickey had not been idle, and, in company with Jack Williams, had made several journeys to the neighbourhood of Dyme Villa. The first thing he did was to procure a ladder and climb on to the wall against which Harry Simmons had been leaning when last seen. Then he ascended a tree, and was rewarded by finding traces of footmarks such as one would expect to be left by dirty boots on a rainy day. Then he found a mark of another kind on the bark of a protruding branch which considerably puzzled him. So long did he remain amongst the leaves that Jack Williams at the bottom became impatient, and asked if he thought he was a bird and was making his nest amongst the branches. But Mickey was in no humour for flippancy, and in a superior manner admonished Jack to keep quiet for a bit. The mark that puzzled him was barely noticeable, and consisted of a slight fraying or indenture in the bark, forming a semi-circle round the branch. At length a light broke in upon our hero.

       "Ah! I have you now," he said. "This mark was formed by a rope which must have been used to hoist some heavy body from below, and that heavy body, unless I'm a Dutchman, was Harry Simmons."

       Having come to this conclusion, he descended to the ground, and, dismissing Jack, walked up and down to think out the matter in the light of the new clues he had discovered. After some minutes' consideration, he bent down to examine the parapet, and could plainly discover the marks of a single wheel as if a cart or cab had pulled up there within about four feet of the wall. For a day or two he was able to make no further discoveries, and then came Mr. Norman's instructions to go on with the case. His employer had explained to Dr. Simmons the acuteness of the lad, as well as his personal knowledge of the appearance of the missing boy, and requested him to afford Mickey as much information is he was able. Our young detective then lost no time in interviewing the doctor and his wife. His questions to the latter were very acute, and elicited answers which became fruitful in results.

       "Can you tell me, ma'am, if there is anyone who would benefit by Harry's disappearance?"

       "No; I think not."

       "Is there anyone who would benefit by his death?"

       "Oh! you dreadful boy!" cried poor Mrs. Simmons. "Why do you ask me such questions?"

       "Because I want to know, ma'am. But don't be afraid. Harry is not dead, and if you will only answer my questions, I'm sure I can bring him back to you. Have you any rich relations?"

       "Yes, certainly; I have a rich uncle, but neither I nor Harry ever expect to get a penny from him."

       "Why?"

       "Because when I married he told me so. All his property goes to my nephew, now that my brother is dead."

       "What age is your nephew?"

       "Oh, quite a man now, I suppose. Must be twenty-two or twenty-three."

       "And what kind of a man is he? Is he good and steady, and all that kind of thing?"

       "I can't, tell you, my boy. I've not seen him since he was a little fellow. Then he was good enough as boys go."

       "And you can't tell me if he has ever quarrelled with your uncle. How do you know but that your uncle has not changed his mind about leaving him the property?"

       "I think it unlikely. My uncle is not, a man to change his mind; and when he told me that neither I nor my children would ever receive a penny of his money I knew well he would keep his word."

       "Where does your uncle live — and your nephew?"

       "They both live at Brynman, in Monmouthshire — my uncle at the Old Hall and Harold in the village itself."

       "Thank you ma'am; I hope to have goods news for you in a few days. Good morning."

       "God bless you, my lad; and a very queer lad you are. You'll do your best, I'm sure."

       That night Mickey Morgan took up a temporary residence in Brynman, and made friends with the solitary newsboy of the village by buying up the whole of his stock of evening papers. He even went so far as to treat him to a bottle of stone ginger and a meat pie. The lad was very communicative, and gave our hero a history of all the "nobs" of the village, including, of course, Harold Evans, the man in whom he was particularly interested. The reputation of that worthy, Mickey was glad to find out, was not an enviable one. As has been already stated, the quondam "Express" boy had a particular prepossession in favour of the Ten Commandments, but, as far as he could now learn, Harold Evans had broken the whole of them, and wished there were more to break. About Squire Evans he learned less, as that worthy magistrate had for some years lived as a recluse, so much so that the younger generation in Brynman were not even acquainted with his features. That he had quarrelled with his grand nephew, Harold Evans, seemed likely, more particularly as it was known the visits of the latter to the hall had not lately been very frequent; though almost every day, with religious regularity, he set out with gun and dogs to thin the game on the estate. He had even a private sporting box in a shady glen in a remote comer of the ground, which he had always kept sacred to himself. Sometimes he even slept there, taking care to provide himself with a plentiful supply of cooked food from the village.

       Three days more passed over Cardiff, and everyone had given up poor Harry Simmons for lost. Even his father had now abandoned all hope; though before his invalid wife he managed to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness. The lady herself was less despondent, and seemed to have been inspired with an extraordinary amount of confidence by the assurance of her son's safety and ultimate discovery given by the youthful Mickey. But the doctor was a man of the world, and had little faith in infant phenomena of any kind, so put down his wife's hopefulness to a kind of softness of the brain induced by her long illness. But on the fourth day after our hero's journey to Brynman the doctor came home with a radiant, if somewhat puzzled, countenance. He had seen Mr. Norman, and that always reticent individual had told him to hope. He could say no more just then, and that was enough to rouse the doctor from the Slough of Despond in which he had sunk. He said nothing to his wife, however, but left events to take their course.

       That very night there was a rather imperious ring at the door bell, and Mickey Morgan re-introduced Harry Simmons to his father's house.

       Of course, there was rejoicing, and Mrs. Simmons so far recovered her illness that for the first time for years she was able to sit at the supper-table with her husband and son. Mickey Morgan was there, too, an honoured guest, and for the first time in his life of fourteen years was able to know the taste of champagne.

       At Squire Evans's death the reason for the kidnapping of Harry Simmons became evident. The whole of his property was left in the hands of trustees to be divided between his two grand nephews, Harold Evans and Harry Simmons, as soon as the latter had reached the age of twenty-one. In case of the death of either the survivor was to inherit the whole. Harold, through the treachery of a lawyer's clerk, became acquainted with the terms of the will, and determined to get rid of Harry before his uncle's death, when the case would be likely to attract less suspicion. The first intention was to play on the boy's fondness for bird-nesting, until an apparent accident put an end to his life. When he saw the boy he somewhat repented of his resolution, and left the question of death or disappearance to be decided on the impulse of the moment. That day, when Jack left him on the South-road, Harold Evans himself was up the tree in front of Dyme Villa. Letting down a rope with a running knot, he told the lad to fasten it under his shoulders, and he would pull him up and show him the finest bird's nest he had ever seen in his life. Soon after the old man, his confederate, returned, and he ordered him to bring oil his private cab without delay. Harry was let down from the tree, put into the cab, and the three drove away, never stopping until Harold Evans's shooting lodge had been reached. There Harry Simmons had been imprisoned, and there he was found one night by our hero, who managed to liberate him. When the facts became known to the doctor, he decided to pass over the conduct of his wife's cousin on account of the mercy shown to the boy in the end, and more particularly, perhaps, to avoid a scandal. Strange as it may appear, Mrs. Simmons, from the day of her boy's recovery, rapidly overcame her illness, and afterwards looked upon Micky Morgan as a second son. The doctor also took a great interest in our hero, and, by lending him books and giving him occasional lessons, made him a worthy companion for his boy. On Sundays, unless when absent on business, Mickey always dined with the doctor's family; but, alas! poor Jack Williams was left out in the cold.

No. 4. — THE SYLVESTER DIVORCE CASE
WILL APPEAR TO-MORROW.

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       About twelve months had passed since our hero had earned increased fame by successfully solving the mystery connected with the disappearance of Harry Simmons, and, although he had in the meantime proved himself a valuable assistant to Mr. Norman, he had not been connected with any case of public importance until called in to assist Mrs. Sylvester after the celebrated divorce case which had so much public attention at the time. Mickey Morgan was now a fine, robust lad of fifteen, with a refined face and looking every inch a little gentleman. He knew this, too, for Mrs. Simmons, who was partly responsible for the change, spared no opportunity of telling him so. It was from Mrs. Simmons herself he took his first interest in the Sylvester case, for the two ladies were well-known to each other. Nothing could make Mrs. Simmons believe that her old friend could be guilty of the conduct imputed to her, and, even after the court had pronounced in favour of a decree nisi, and Mrs. Sylvester was branded as an abandoned woman and unfit to have charge of her child, she still found a warm welcome to Dr. Simmons's house.

       The facts of the case were very painful, and if Mrs. Sylvester was an innocent woman she had been the victim of such a set of circumstances or organised villainy as in the opinion of all who read the reports of the case left neither judge nor jury any way out of giving an adverse verdict.

       The name of the co-respondent was not known, but his portrait was put in, and was recognised by hotel-keepers and waiters in different parts of the country as that of man who had visited their establishments in company with respondent and passed as her husband. There did not seem to be any hesitation about the recognition, and, as most of the witnesses were of undoubted respectability, and, under the most skilful cross-examination, were able to maintain their point, the jury had no option but to believe them. Unfortunately for herself, Mrs. Sylvester had no memory for dates, and her own evidence as to her whereabouts on certain days hopelessly broke down under the merciless cross-examination of the opposite counsel. Another thing which counted against her was that when staying for a few weeks at Aberystwyth she was absent on one night from her hotel. Asked to give cause for this absence, she said she had received a letter from her husband, asking her to meet him at a railway-station at Newcastle-on-Tyne, and she had gone up there, but not meeting him had returned at once, the whole of the time she was absent being occupied by the railway journey. Asked to produce the letter, she declared she had either lost it or destroyed it. In her absence her husband called at her hotel, and took possession, he declared, of some letters written in an unknown hand, which gave a different reason for her absence, and witnesses were called to show that she had passed the night at Swansea in company with the unknown. A somewhat similar incident occurred when, later on, she moved up to Rhyl. Her presence at these watering-places, she declared, was in accordance with the wish of her husband, and not her own, as she preferred to pass her time in Cardiff.

       During another of her mysterious absences she was seen, or supposed to have been seen, at a London theatre. The witness remembered the occasion, for it was the first, night of a new play, and he was not in the habit of attending theatres above four or five times a year. It was proved, on the evidence of a cabman, that the two left the theatre before the performance was over and drove together to Charing Cross Station. There was a great deal of evidence of this class, and, although her counsel and solicitor had implicit belief in Mrs. Sylvester's innocence, she was able to give them such small help that they could do little to extricate her from her awkward position. Many of the spectators, too, and some barristers, seeing the guilelessness of the woman, and pitying her helplessness, were forced to believe in her innocence, in spite of the damning evidence brought against her.

       Mr. Norman had been employed to get up evidence on her behalf, and proposed to set himself to prove misconduct on the part of her husband, but the good lady would not listen to him.

       "No, Mr. Norman," she said, "I don't want you to prove my husband guilty of anything — it would only grieve me to know of his guilt, but I want you to prove my innocence."

       "But, my dear lady, how can I prove your innocence when you give me nothing to go upon? Not even the least thing with which to convince the jury of the untrustworthiness of the opposing witnesses. If I myself chose to doubt your word you have not the means of proving to me, for instance, the truth as to your journey to Newcastle. I have made inquiries all along the line, and can find no one who has seen you, although the photograph I hold is a very good one."

       "Then I can only trust in God, sir, as man can do nothing for me."

       Mr. Norman was sick-of the case. He never had such a helpless client. If she were only a little unscrupulous he might have made something out of her, but to every suggestion as to inquiring into the private life of her husband she gave an emphatic refusal. He had not consulted Mickey Morgan in the case, not considering him old enough to take interest in affairs of the kind. He often afterwards regretted that he had not done so.

       Some weeks after the decree nisi had been given, Mrs. Sylvester called upon Mrs. Simmons, our hero happening to be in the house at the time. After the ladies had some private talk together, Mickey was called in. He had known Mrs. Sylvester for some time, and was now shocked at the charge in per appearance. Instead of the ruddy-faced lady he had expected to see, he found a delicate, fragile-looking creature, reminding him of how Mrs. Simmons looked when, a year before, he interviewed her in her bedroom.

       "Michael," said the latter lady, motioning him to a seat, "I want to have a long talk with you. You are yet too young to understand such troubles as have come upon my friend, Mrs. Sylvester, but for all that you may be able to help her."

       "Oh, I know something about it, ma'am. Mr. Sylvester says she cares for someone else more than himself, and has got rid of her. I read the case in the papers."

       "Well that's something like it, Michael; but you must know that my friend cares for no one except her husband, and all the bad things said about her are lies. I tell her that you may be able to prove her innocence just as you were able to find my boy for me."

       "I should try hard, ma'am, if you asked me, but maybe, 'twould be harder than finding Harry. Mr. Norman is a very clever man, and I understand he was not able to do much for Mrs. Sylvester."

       "Perhaps Mr. Norman could not have found Harry either; but in any case I want you to try to help my friend. You are a boy, and may go without exciting suspicion where Mr. Norman could not. Do you agree to help us? You may take your own course; go anywhere you like, but find out the truth. Mrs. Sylvester will provide you with plenty of money for the purpose."

       "I must ask Mr. Norman's permission first. You see I'm not my own master, ma'am, but I think he will give me leave, and I will do all in my power."

       "Very well, then, Michael. Ask Mr. Norman, and when you have got your permission come to me again."

       Mickey's employer was rather astonished when he recounted the matter to him, particularly when he learned that he was to adopt his own course. Could Mrs. Sylvester have changed her opinion then as to the desirability of bringing counter charges against her husband? Whether that was so or not, he determined that his assistant should understand it so, and set about proving such misconduct on the part of Mr. Sylvester as would justify the Queen's Proctor in intervening. This gave free permission to Mickey to devote himself to the case, and, moreover, indicated clearly the lines on which he should set to work.

       "Above all," he said, finally, "keep Sylvester in view. Find where he goes, with whom he visits, how long he has known them, and keep your eye open for a good-looking woman."

       Before finally embarking on his new investigation our hero had another interview with Mrs. Sylvester, and questioned her with his accustomed keenness.

       "When you went to Newcastle, ma'am, did your dress resemble the one worn in the photograph?"

       "It was, I believe, the very same."

       "What else did you wear — a mantle or cloak?"

       "The weather was somewhat chilly at the time, and I took a fur-lined cloak with me."

       "What else did you carry?"

       "An umbrella and a small hand-bag."

       "Have you got them now?"

       "The hand-bag, yes; the umbrella, no — I lost it in the train on the way up."

       "You lost it in the train — have you told Mr. Norman so?"

       "Dear me, I believe not. But what difference does that make?"

       "Goodness gracious, Mrs. Sylvester, why all the difference in the world. If one of the railway officials found it up North, would it not prove that you had been there and not in Swansea. You couldn't be in both places, you know. And if the people at Swansea were able to swear so positively about you, does it not show that there is someone very like you knocking about, and it might be the same person who had been seen at the other places."

       "True enough, my boy, but somehow I never thought of it in that light."

       "What kind of an umbrella was it — had it any particular mark by which it could be known to be yours?"

       "It was a nice gold-mounted one, with my Christian name, 'Ethel,' engraved on the handle."

       "It seems to me the first thing to be found out is the whereabouts of that umbrella. Did you make any inquiries about it?"

       "Yes, I told an official at Aberystwyth of my loss, but, as I did not know exactly where I had left it, he did hold out many hopes of its recovery."

       "Did you inquire any further?"

       "Yes, when leaving Aberystwyth, I asked if they had found it, but was told that they had had no reply from the North. Afterwards I'm afraid, I forgot all about it."

       "So that for all you know the umbrella may now be waiting for you at Aberystwyth?"

       "I'm afraid not; railway passengers and railway porters are so dishonest."

       That same night saw Mickey in Aberystwyth, but he was disappointed to find that no trace of the missing article had been found. The inquiry had been duly registered, but the records at the station threw no further light, on the matter. The next morning he started for Newcastle, stopping at Leeds on the way. At neither place could any trace of the umbrella be found. Then it occurred to him to try what an announcement in the newspapers would do, and the next morning several Northern dailies contained the following advertisement:—

       "£5 reward will be given for the recovery of a gold-mounted lady's umbrella, marked 'Ethel,' which was left in a Great Northern train on the evening of July 15 last. No questions will be asked, but the money paid down on bringing or sending the article to M. M., Great Northern Hotel, Leeds.

       He had gone back to Leeds as being more central, and the result showed the wisdom of his course. That very night an inquiry for M. M." called at the office of the hotel, and our hero was advised of the fact. He found a plain little woman waiting for him, wearing a long cloak, under which he fancied she carried something concealed.

       "I'm M. M.," he said. "Do you know anything of the umbrella?"

       "Dear me, was it you advertised? But no, it must have been your mother. Where is she?"

       "No, it was I who advertised, and I will give five pounds this minute if you bring me that umbrella."

       "Well, 'tis worth five pounds, sir, my son says, and more, but he's never had a day's rest since he brought it home, and he remembers the lady, too, who owned it."

       "Does he? Well, that's better still. If you bring him here to me I will give him a pound for himself."

       "No, he wouldn't take it, sir, and I'm not to take a halfpenny for the umbrella. Though its made him miserable enough in one way, it has brought him luck in others."

       As she spoke she handed him the article, and was about to leave the room, when he detained her.

       "I'm sure you, are very kind, ma'am, and if you knew a poor lady was in trouble you would do your best to help her. Now the lady to whom this umbrella belongs does not care a button about the value of it, but it is very important for her to be able to prove that she was here on the evening she lost it. Take the £5, and I will go with you to see your son."

       The old woman looked at him keenly, and, finding no traces of treachery in his face, decided to agree to his proposal. In half an hour afterwards he found himself in a small house in Armley, talking to a young fellow dressed in the uniform of a railway porter.

       "Yes, I remember the lady's face well, sir. I found the umbrella a few minutes after she had left the train at Newcastle, where I was then living. Being busy I kept it by me for a bit, thinking every moment that inquiries would be made. Then, in half-an-hour afterwards, I saw her at the booking-office, asking for a ticket for somewhere in the South, and I thought she was crazy. What in the world had she come to Newcastle for only to go back by the next train? The devil tempted me, I suppose, and I stuck to the umbrella. There was gold enough on it, I thought, to pawn for a sovereign, of which I stood then in great need. Never mind what for, sir — but that sovereign brought me luck. In a few, days afterwards I was able to redeem the umbrella, and have kept it by me ever since, hoping some day to see the lady again, and return it to her."

       Mickey Morgan pulled out half-a dozen photographs of different ladies from his pocket, and asked the porter if he could recognise the owner of the umbrella amongst them.

       "Why, yes — there she is beyond all doubt."

       He pointed to the photograph of Mrs. Sylvester.

       "Do you think the pawnbroker would recognise the umbrella?"

       "I'm sure he would; for I had to answer many awkward questions about it."

       When Mickey had taken the name and address of the pawnbroker, he started for the hotel, and soon after was on his way to London, where Mr. Sylvester was then residing. For four days he kept pretty closely on his track, without being able to discover anything that could serve his ends. But on the fifth day he followed him to Kew, and saw him enter a pretty villa not far away from the bank of the river. In about an hour he re-appeared, accompanied by a sprightly lady, and a gentleman, whose appearance struck him as being somewhat familiar. Mickey followed them at a respectable distance until they came to the entrance to the garden, when he approached within hearing distance. There were several people about, so even if Mr. Sylvester knew him there was a fair chance of his passing unnoticed in the crowd. They were evidently talking on indifferent matters, but he caught one expression which gave him an idea as to what his future conduct should be.

       "I have a whole catechism of questions to ask you at tea time, Edward; so be prepared."

       Edward Sylvester then evidently intended to return to the cottage for tea, and Mickey Morgan resolved that he also should be there. Instead then of pursuing them further, he strolled back towards the house, and was glad to see through an open French window, that a table was being already laid. Watching a favourable opportunity, he quietly glided in and ensconced himself under the table. For fully half-an-hour he lay there alone, till at length he heard the door opening, and Mr. Sylvester and his companions entered. As soon as the servant had withdrawn, the threatened catechetical examination began.

       "And so, Edward, the poor little woman is taking things quietly. You don't fear, then, that she will make an effort to clear herself?"

       "Bless you, no. She hasn't the spirit of a goose. She looks upon the case as decided forever, and will, no doubt, soon begin to persuade herself that she was guilty, after all. She never could believe anything bad of me, you know."

       "Poor creature! What a trouble I had to make up to that inane little face! And what a namby-pamby I must have appeared at the hotels. Upon my word, I doubt if I would go through it all again even for your sake, Edward. Why, that wretched dye has ruined my hair."

       "Never mind, Blanche, we will soon be rewarded for all our anxiety."

       And so the whole plot was revealed to the silent listener, and when at last he was able to escape he forgot the dignity due to his position, and bounded away with the friskiness of a young goat. Before leaving Kew, however, he made a few inquiries as to the residents of the villa, the charming lady becoming identified with a celebrity of the music-hall stage, and the gentleman a brother, who did nothing in particular, beyond making a book on a race and playing propriety with his sister whenever called upon to fulfil that office.

       Arriving in town, Mickey sent a telegram to Mr. Norman, asking him to come up at once. That very night he arrived, and warmly congratulated our hero on the result of his investigation. A few inquiries made by Mr. Norman himself brought to light the fact that the charming Blanche was absent from the halls on the occasions of Mrs. Sylvester's supposed escapades, and one of the witnesses who happened to be in London, on having the music-hall artist pointed out to him, declared that it was possible, and even probable, that she was the lady he had seen, and not Mrs. Sylvester. But when he saw Blanche's brother he declared emphatically that he was the gentleman.

       He is short of the beard, but the same nose, the same walk, the same eyes, and — he is the man."

       Other witnesses were brought up from Swansea, and they were of the same opinion. In short, everything was made clear, and, whilst, the conspirators were flattering themselves that all was to be plain sailing in the future, the Queen's Proctor was taking steps to set aside the verdict which had taken away from Mrs. Sylvester her husband and her child. When the case came on for re-hearing, the conspirators had disappeared, and it was well for them that they had for the judge did not mince matters in his comments on the character and conduct of the three, and if they had come before him for conspiracy, as the Public Prosecutor ordered, it is pretty sure their sentences would correspond with the enormity and meanness of the offence they had committed.

       Mrs. Simmons gave our hero a warm, motherly welcome on his return from London, and, with tears in her eyes, thanked him for what he had done. She seemed to be more pleased at the clearing of her friend's character than was the passive Mrs. Sylvester herself. The latter lady, however, was not backward in praise of Mickey Morgan, whom she declared to be "the most wonderful boy in the whole world!"

WILL APPEAR TO-MORROW.
No. 5. — THE CASE OF MRS. TRAYNOR.

---

       "My dear Mickey," said Mr. Norman one day, "you are becoming the champion of distressed ladies. Here is another who wants to call in your valuable services. I am really getting jealous of you, and if you go on in this way you will throw me out of work altogether. When do you intend to set up shop on your own account?"

       "Never, sir, if you'll let me work for you. Besides, I'm too young."

       "Well, never mind, there is a charming young widow now who claims your attention, and I think it just as well for you to interview her. Take a look at yourself in the glass and straighten your hair, my boy; there's no telling what the future may bring forth."

       Mickey went into the waiting-room and found a very pretty little lady dressed in deep mourning awaiting him.

       "Good morning, ma'am; can I do anything for you?"

       "Oh, you're the wonderful boy I have heard so much about. You're bigger than I thought — quite a little man, in fact. Well, I hope you will be able to do a great deal for me if you listen to my story."

       Mickey Morgan had always been a polite boy, and now, under the tuition of Mrs. Simmons and Mr. Norman, who was a Cambridge man, he was fast becoming a courtier.

       "I'm sure I shall have great pleasure in listening to you, madam, and shall be delighted to serve you in any way."

       Mrs. Traynor smiled at his manner, and began her story.

       "In the first place. I want to ask you if you think I look at all mad?"

       "Madam, I should entertain grave doubts of the sanity of anyone who accused you of being so."

       Mrs. Traynor was a sly little party, and was now working with a view of enlisting the personal sympathies of the boy on her behalf.

       "Do you see any such suspicious twinkle or glare in my eye as would lead you to suppose that I might become mad at an early date?"

       "You're eyes are charming, Mrs. Traynor, and I defy Bridgend to say otherwise."

       "Well, do you know, some very kind relatives of mine entertain ambitious hopes of seeing me before long occupy a not too capacious apartment in that establishment. But I had better go on with my story from the beginning. I was only three months married when my poor husband died, and now I live with his mother, who is also a widow and a very good-looking one, of the not too advanced age of 42. Two young widows are, I think, too many in a single house. At any rate, my good mother-in-law seems to consider so, for she is diligently preparing the way for my removal. Amongst other things, she accuses me of being a kleptomaniac, and she has warned my tradesmen to keep an eye on me. Indeed, this very day in a drapery establishment in this town, I saw the shop-walker instruct one of the assistants to keep an eye on me. The worst of it is that at least half-a-dozen times I have been accused of taking small articles from various shops, and, still more, the articles have been found in my possession. At my husband's death I fell into a severe illness, and Mrs. Traynor, senior, brought a professional nurse from I don't know where to look after me. I wouldn't like to say she tried to kill me, for I have recovered, but, as for looking after me, she does that now with a vengeance. I can't stir without her at my heels, and it was only by a miracle I managed to give her the slip to-day. I feel somehow that it is she who has appropriated the articles alluded to, and somehow transferred them to my pockets, but I am not sure. I am absolutely certain, however, that I am entirely innocent of the charge, for I have never felt the slightest covetousness towards other people's goods, and, having more money than I know what to do with, I need want for nothing in the shape of jewels or adornment. But there is worse still. I find the opinion prevails all through the valley that if not already mad I am quickly becoming so. This very morning at the station in Pontypridd I heard an old lady remark to her daughter that 'the poor creature has gone quite crazy, and it is extraordinary to see her out alone.' The latter observation is true enough — it is extraordinary to see me out alone, or to see me in alone, for that matter. There is a regular conspiracy to make it appear that I am actually mad, and one night someone entered my bedroom and smashed the mirror and every breakable article in the room. I am not a coward, and jumped out of bed, only to find myself in the hands of the nurse, who began to soothe me as if I had been doing something outrageous, telling me, just as Mrs. Traynor and a servant entered the room, to be quiet, that it was all a mistake, the mirror and the furniture were not enemies, but all great friends of mine. As if I should think of them as being friends or enemies! Of course, I believe it was the nurse herself who broke the things, or someone working hand in hand with her. This is not the only incident of the kind that has occurred, and, although a pretence is made of keeping any supposed accessions of maniacal fury a secret, in reality, the greatest publicity is given to them. Tradesmen come to the house to repair the damages, and many a time I have surprised furtive glances of pity directed towards me. In fact, I believe that matters are reaching a crisis, and that I shall soon find myself the inmate of a private lunatic asylum. Now I want you, Mr. Morgan, to promise me that, should I be carried away, you will do all in your power to find me. I have given Mr. Norman sufficient money to enable him to work on my behalf should the worst happen."

       "Can you tell me, madam, what motive or interest your mother-in-law may have in passing you for a mad woman?"

       "As far as I know, a money interest alone. My husband left me all his property, which brings in I don't know how many thousands a year (I have not had time to look into the matter yet), whilst the dowager Mrs. Traynor has only three hundred a year. If I were out of the way she would have the handling of this money, though what she wants it for goodness alone knows. I pay all the expense of the house, and would always share with her, as I am not really fond of money, as she knows very well. My poor husband expressed a wish before he died that we should live together, and asked me to be kind to, and patient with, his mother. Otherwise, of course, I would not have remained a week under the same roof with her after finding out her kind intentions towards me."

       "I quite see the motive actuating your mother-in-law; that is presuming she is fond of money and power, and is ambitious. Does she, do you think, intend to marry again?"

       "That, I can't say, though she is giddy enough for anything. She has friends, or a friend, who visit her, to whom I have never been introduced. It is quite possible she may intend to marry again — I suppose she is not too old."

       "Oh dear, no," said Mickey, in the light of his superior knowledge of the world, "they marry at all ages. But you won't be offended, Mrs. Traynor, if I give you a bit of advice, which I should like you to act upon this very day."

       "I shall not be offended, Mr. Morgan: speak out what you think."

       She called him mister for the second time, because she saw he was pleased by the prefix and she wished him to take the greatest interest in herself.

       "Well, what I would advise you now, madam, is to go at once to a good doctor, obtain a certificate as to your own sanity, and hand it over to me. It may save a great deal of trouble afterwards. I have a very particular friend who is known as one of the best doctors in Cardiff, and if you would come with me this very instant we will get the matter over at once. Dr. Simmons would do anything for me, and to make the matter more secure could call in a colleague to assist him."

       "I am entirely in your hands, Mr. Morgan, and see the wisdom of the suggestion, a fact which in itself ought to be sufficient to show that I am mot mad. Let us go at once."

       The two descended the stairs together, but scarcely had they got outside the door when Mrs. Traynor gave a little cry of alarm. A few yards away stood a tall, masculine-looking woman, dressed in the garb of an hospital nurse. As soon as she saw them she gave a little run towards Mrs. Traynor, who recoiled as if from a serpent. Mickey hailed a cab, and, detaining the nurse by the arm, told Mrs. Traynor to get in. The nurse made an attempt to follow, but our hero, who was particularly strong for his age, kept a firm grip, at the same time shouting to the cabby to drive on.

       "Go to where I told you, Mrs. Traynor, I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour."

       The cab went off, and the nurse almost screamed, giving our hero at the same time a blow in the face. Mickey, who was not chivalrous where termagants and Jewish landladies were concerned, retaliated by a vicious pinch, which increased the fury of his prisoner ten-fold. But the cab had by this time got out of sight, and he decided to liberate her.

       "You may go now, my good woman," he said, "and Old Nick go along with you."

       "You shall pay dearly for this my gutter-sparrow — very dearly."

       But he had not time to bandy words with her. Rushing into St. Mary-street, he got into a hansom and drove directly to Dr. Simmons's house. He did not stop there, however, for a glance showed him that he was being followed. Turning a corner he jumped out, telling the cabby to drive on and lead the pursuer a dance, whilst he went down an entry and got into Dr. Simmons's house by the back. He found Mrs. Traynor awaiting him. She jumped with delight on seeing him.

       "Oh, you clever, clever boy, how can I thank you: and how did you get rid of her?"

       "She is still pursuing me on the way to Llandaff — I hate that woman!"

       "I'm no glad, dear (Mickey blushed scarlet), and I'm sure now you sympathise with me. Don't you hate my mother-in-law also, Mr. Morgan?"

       "Well, upon my word, I believe I do, although I have never seen her."

       If it is possible for a boy of fifteen to be in love Mickey was by this time seriously enamoured of the young widow, and would have died to serve her. Before the conversation could be resumed, Dr. Simmons entered, and was duly presented to his new patient. In a few words Mickey explained the state of affairs. As luck would have it, there was another doctor in the house at the time, but, after a careful examination and a full inquiry into her family history, they both signed a certificate declaring Mrs. Ada Traynor to be perfectly sound in mind and body, exhibiting not the slightest symptom of insanity, hereditary or otherwise. The little lady was as delighted on reading this certificate as if she had not been before fully convinced of her own state of mind. Mickey Morgan insisted on introducing his new friend to Mrs. Simmons. "You can't tell what help she may be afterwards," he said, "and I am sure she will now give you good advice."

       Mrs. Traynor had before explained that she had no friends nearer than the North of England; no one to whom she could with safety unburden herself, and Mickey Morgan rightly considered that Mrs. Simmons was just, the kind of friend she wanted. The two ladies were mutually pleased at the introduction, and the elder one at once took the liveliest interest in the affairs of the young widow. As a result of a consideration of both sides of the question, it was decided that Mrs. Traynor should, for the present at any rate, return to her home near Pontypridd, but that should any fresh development take place she was either to come at once to Cardiff or to write to Dr. Simmons. Mickey Morgan refused to disclose the line of action he would himself adopt, but, on parting, assured Mrs. Traynor that until further notice she was under his special care, and that she need have no fear. She drove home in a cab, leaving the nurse watching for her at the railway station in Cardiff. That night Mickey found means of entering Mrs. Traynor's house without attracting notice. He was well aware that in doing so he was contravening the law of the land, but as long as he kept faithful to the Ten Commandments our hero troubled himself very little about other laws. Besides, in this case he had obtained from Mrs. Traynor, the owner of the house, permission to enter at any time and by any means most suitable to himself. As for the other inmates their feelings were not to be taken into consideration — they were simply the enemies he had to work against.

       His enterprise, however, on this occasion, did not meet with much reward. He managed to overhear part of a conversation between Mrs. Traynor, senior, and the nurse, in which part of the incidents of the day in Cardiff were related, and also heard some words as to a doctor, but whether they referred to Dr. Simmons or another member of the profession he was unable to say. When he could see that all the inmates were about to retire for the night he managed to escape from the house unnoticed by everyone, except a kind of rough Airedale terrier, who eyed him curiously and emitted a kind of inquiring bark. Mickey was fond of dogs, and without much trouble could make friends with the most vicious of the breed. Indeed, he could scarcely pass one in the streets without stooping to inquire after his health, and giving him one of those caressing pats so strongly appreciated by the canine race. Nor was our hero frightened by the Airedale on this occasion. He told him in soothing accents that he was the best dog in the whole world, not to speak of Wales, and that he (Mickey), who had a large acquaintance amongst dogs, knew what he was speaking about. The sagacious animal examined our hero as a connoisseur in wines would snuffle at a bottle of old port, and, being satisfied with the result, decided to admit him into the number of his friends. As it turned out afterwards "King" was young Mrs. Travnor's own dog, and as a rule could not be brought to admit anyone into the circle of his acquaintance without having watched their conduct for at least a month. It says a great deal, then, for "King's" instinct that he was able in a moment to distinguish in our hero a staunch friend of his beloved mistress. As soon as the two had disposed of a few sandwiches together in the shadow of an old oak, the friendship was finally ratified, and they parted in hopes of being able to see a good deal of each other in the future. Mickey hired a hansom to carry him to Cardiff, where some private matters claimed his attention, intending to be back at an early hour on the following morning. He thought it very likely that if her mother-in-law had made up her mind to commit Mrs. Traynor to an asylum, the chances were, that after what had occurred that day she would take decisive steps at once. By seven he was once more back in Pontypridd, and before anyone seemed to be stirring at Ynnis House, the name of Mrs. Traynor's residence, had renewed his acquaintanceship with "King." The dog, he thought, seemed tired and anxious, as if he had only just returned from a long and unsuccessful chase. Later on Mickey Morgan knew the reason of this.

       Three hours passed, and Mrs. Traynor did not appear. She had told him the position of her bedroom, and on his request had promised that if in any distress she would hang a red handkerchief in the window. There was no handkerchief now, and the blind was not even drawn. He thought it strange she should not be up at half-past ten. At length the nurse came out, walking hurriedly, then a lady, whom he judged to be the elder Mrs. Traynor. They walked together in the direction of the town, but Mickey decided to keep to his hiding-place for the present. Then a servant came out, and began to talk with a tradesman who had called. What he heard nearly took his breath away. Mrs. Traynor had escaped from the house. Her bed had not even been slept in, and her mother-in-law had now gone down to Pontypridd to order police inquiries. For a moment our hero was puzzled; then the question resolved into this — either Mrs. Traynor had left the house of her own accord, in which case he would find her with Mrs. Simmons; or, she had been forcibly carried away during the night. "Fool that I was," said he, "to leave her for a moment."

No. 6. — THE SEARCH FOR MRS. TRAYNOR.

---

       Before Mickey Morgan left the precincts of Ynnis House he noticed fresh wheel marks on the carriage drive. He was able to trace their course for a bit, and decided they had gone in the direction of Pontypridd. Then he went to the telegraph office and wired to Mrs. Simmons. He did not want to mention Mrs. Traynor's name, so simply said:—

       "Is our friend of yesterday at your house? I fear trouble; wire at once, P.O., Pontypridd."

       Whilst waiting for a reply he went to the police-station, as he knew one of the inspectors, and might reasonably hops to obtain such information as the elder Mrs. Traynor or the nurse might have chosen to impart. He was unlucky enough to meet the two of them face to face.

       "Oh, goodness! here's that dreadful boy who detained me yesterday. I've a good mind to give him in charge. You saw my arm, ma'am, how the nasty little rascal pinched it. He ought to get five years at the least."

       "If you were judge and jury in one I'm sure I would, miss. But what about the blow you gave me in the face? For that you should receive sentence of seven years at least — for that and other things."

       As he spoke he looked meaningly at her, and saw her face flinch. Mrs. Traynor, senior, who showed impatience at this colloquy, here interposed, and, looking haughtily at our hero, said:—

       "Who are you, my boy, and how do you know my daughter?"

       "I don't know your daughter."

       "My daughter-in-law, then."

       "Ah!, you're her mother-in-law, madam; a little less than kin and less than kind," returned Mickey, misquoting Shakspeare.

       "Do you know where my daughter-in-law now is?"

       "No, madam. I want you or your companion to tell me."

       "You are a very impudent boy."

       "I am, ma'am — want of early training, you know. If I had only had you for a mother, now — ah! how different I should be."

       Before the duel could go any further the inspector came to the door. It was the same officer whose acquaintance our hero had made at Penarth on the occasion of the Dimsdale robbery.

       "Ah! my old friend," said the officer, holding out his hand, "how are you? Why, you've grown into a man. The world has treated you well sin' auld lang syne — eh?"

       "Very well, indeed, Inspector — so you have not forgotten me?"

       "Should auld acquaintance be forgot — eh?"

       The inspector had recently taken to reading Burns, and was quickly acquiring a Scotch accent. Both the nurse and her companion looked annoyed at this pleasant interchange of civilities, and quickly interposed.

       "So you know this boy, inspector?" said the nurse. "I believe he is at the bottom of my mistress's disappearance. He was with her yesterday in Cardiff and prevented me from following her."

       "Upon my word, friend Mickey. I admire your taste — 'what signifies the life o' man an' 'twere na for the lasses?' But do you really know anything of the missing lady — where is she?"

       "I have not the slightest idea of her whereabouts, inspector, and if I had I would not tell you in the presence of these two ladies."

       "Well, come inside, my boy, and let us have a talk. Good morning, Mrs. Traynor; good morning, Miss Simpson."

       The two discomfited ones departed, and our hero followed the inspector to his office.

       "Before you ask me any questions," began Mickey, "I should like you to tell me what information the old lady has given you. I may as well tell you that I am working in the interest of Mrs. Traynor, junior."

       "They have simply told me that the lady disappeared some time during the night, and that as she has recently gone off her head a bit they entertain some fears as to her safety. Of course, I knew the poor thing was mad —–"

       "You knew wrong, inspector. She was perfectly sane, only her mother-in-law, for her own ends, wanted to make it appear so. Look at that certificate."

       The inspector on reading the testimony of the two medical men looked astonished, and asked for an explanation, on hearing which he again quoted Burns and swore in Scotch.

       As sufficient time had now elapsed for a reply to his telegram to have arrived, Mickey went to the post-office, where he found Mrs. Simmons's answer. As he feared they knew nothing of the missing lady at the doctor's house, and there could now be no doubt she had been spirited away during the night.

       The first thing he set himself to find out was if Mrs. Traynor's own coachman was absent. For this purpose he called at a public-house in the neighbourhood, and amongst the half-a-dozen customers inside he found the object of his search to be the sole subject of conversation.

       "I tell you," said one, "the lady was no more mad than I am. I've spoken to her many a time since those rumours started, and a more sensible or kinder lady could not be found in all Wales."

       "Why, then," said another, "should she sneak from shopkeepers what she doesn't want and what she could buy if she wanted?"

       "Ay, why, indeed! That's what I want to know. I tell you she has never sneaked a pin's worth; if any sneaking has been done 'tis that Lily Langtry of a nurse who has done it, and put the blame on my poor mistress."

       Our hero was in luck, for where he least expected he came across Mrs. Traynor's coachman, and, what's more, found him to be loyal to his mistress and with a true insight into the merits of the case. Mickey had long since found that the easiest way to enter into a public-house conversation is to pay for drinks, and so, ordering a second bottle of hop bitters for himself, he invited the others to drink half-a-gallon at his expense. They all looked at him in astonishment, but the sovereign he threw down on the counter removed any qualms they might have entertained as to the propriety of accepting drink from a boy. When the beer had been disposed of he called the coachman into another room, with a view of extracting from him any information that might assist him in his search.

       "And so you think that Mrs. Traynor was not mad," he began.

       "Not a bit of it, sir. There has been some devilment going on for some time between the old lady and that Guy Fawkes of a nurse."

       "I may tell you that I know Mrs. Traynor, and I quite agree with what you say. But what do you think they have done with her?"

       "Done with her? Why, I think the poor thing has run away on her own account — and just about time, too."

       "No, she has not run away I can assure you of that. I was talking to Mrs. Traynor yesterday, and she promised me that if in any trouble she would go to the house of a friend of mine in Cardiff; and she is not there. She has been carried away. Now can you tell me if the coach was out anywhere last night?"

       "I have not seen it this morning yet, but can soon find out. The old lady gave me leave yesterday to visit my mother at Aberdare, and I only came back this morning."

       "Did you ask for leave of absence?"

       "Not particularly; but she knows I like to see my mother sometimes, and, as there was nothing particular to do, she said I might go."

       "Where do you sleep?"

       "In a room over the coach-house."

       "Can you not see, then, that you were simply sent out of the wav? Old Mrs. Traynor, evidently has no confidence in you."

       "That's a fact. She would have sent me away long since, only for the young mistress. You see, it was the poor young master who engaged me, and his widow does not like any of his arrangements to be interfered with."

       "Have any strangers been visiting the house Lately — any strange doctor, for instance?"

       "Yes, a gentleman has called several times who might very well pass for a doctor — an Army doctor, I should say. You see I have been in the service and know the style of 'em."

       "You don't know where he came from?"

       "No, but he seemed to be mighty familiar with Nurse Simpson. I should say they come from the same place, and she's from London."

       "Will you run in and see if the coach has been out. I shall wait for you here."

       In twenty minutes the coachman returned with a somewhat puzzled countenance.

       "Yes, the coach is gone and the two horses! To take the horses was easy enough, but I had the key of the coach-house in my pocket, and how they got it I don't know."

       "Tell me, who does that rough-haired dog belong to?"

       "To the young mistress, sir; he would scarcely follow anyone else."

       "Well, I saw him this morning, and I'm sure he looked fatigued, as if he had only just come back from a long run. He must have followed the carriage during the night. Can he smell well? Do you think if we left him to himself he would be able to show us which way the carriage went? It first took the road to Pontypridd I know, but I can't say further at present."

       "I think he could follow his mistress's trail anywhere, and as I have got to-day off I will fetch him if you like, and see what can be done."

       In a short time "King" led the two along the lonely road up by Craig Wen, where, fortunately, there was not much traffic, and the wheelmarks could now and again be distinguished. But this direction seemed to have been taken on account of the quietness of the road, for the coach afterwards took a turn towards Ynysybwl, and from there on to the Merthyr-road. Arriving at that town, the coachman said he could go no further, as he would have to see to his duties at eight. Mickey decided to keep "King" with him, and to pursue his inquiries further in the same direction, at the same time promising the coachman a ten-pound note if he would play the eavesdropper over the conversation of the nurse and Mrs. Traynor, and obtain some information as to the whereabouts of his mistress. This he readily undertook to do, more particularly as he knew that if young Mrs. Traynor were not soon found, his own reign as coachman to Ynnis House would come to a speedy end.

       "Hide yourself under a table, then, to-night, and wire me to P.O., Merthyr, anything you may hear," said Mickey Morgan, in conclusion.

       Though exceedingly tired, our hero still determined to do something more that night and to trust to the instinct of the dog as to where he should take up his resting-place. This he finally found at a small hotel on the north outlet of the town. As soon as he had rested a little he went into the bar, and, after paying for another half-gallon, spoke about having heard of a coach and pair of horses being stolen from a house in Pontypridd the previous night. He also said it was supposed the robber had gone in the direction of Merthyr. No one there knew anything about it, but he was told that if he went to the Wagon and Horses he might hear something about it. Many of the night roadmen congregated there. He took immediate advantage of the hint and repaired there at once. He had previously inquired at the police-station, but, though one constable thought he had heard the noise of a coach during the small hours of the morning, he was able to obtain no definite information. At the Wagon and Horses, however, he was more successful, for one man saw a carriage pass between three and four, with a dog running behind. "Why, bless my soul," said he, looking at "King," "I believe that is the very dog." "King" wagged his tail by way of assent. "I saw him return some time after," continued the nightman, "I suppose he must have been driven back."

       "Which direction did the coach go?"

       "Up north, towards Pontypool."

       After this our hero thought he deserved a good night's rest, and returned to his hotel. He was up early in the morning, and soon after the post-office opened he inquired for a telegram. He had not long to wait. At that very moment one was being ticked off for him on the instrument. It was from the coachman, and consisted of the following words:—

       "Did as requested. I heard the name Hereford mentioned more than once: also something about the top of a hill. Have got the sack, but would not take it. Said I would wait my mistress's return first. Old lady and Lily Langtry furious."

       That same evening our hero, still accompanied by his new friend, "King," was in Hereford. The coachman had given him a pretty clear description of the supposed Army doctor, and he at once set about making inquiries as to whether anyone answering to the description lived in or near the town. For two days he felt completely baffled, and then, having managed to make the acquaintance of a young billiard-marker at the principal club of the town, he at length got upon the track. A certain Major Henkins lived in a lonely house on the top of a hill some three miles outside the town, and the billiard-marker had heard it stated that the major had only been a doctor in the Army, and that he should really be called surgeon-major. Towards the end of the third day he learned that the major's house had lately received a mysterious guest, whom none of the servants, with the exception of one old woman, was permitted to see. Three telegrams brought Mr. Norman, Dr. Simmons, and Mrs. Traynor's coachman to Hereford. There was some preliminary difficulty in the way of getting a magistrate to sign a search warrant, Major Henkins being well-known in the town, but, Dr. Simmons, who was a magistrate himself, overcame all difficulties, and the necessary authority was obtained. But the major had been warned as to the intended raid on his house. No trace of Mrs. Traynor could be found, and all were in the act of retiring discomfited when it occurred to our hero to search the coach-house. When the major saw him enter he turned to an ashy paleness, and swore like a trooper. This was encouraging, but more so still the sight of young Mrs. Traynor stretched out on the seat of a carriage. There was a strong smell of laudanum about, and the doctor saw at once that she had been given an opiate. When Mrs. Traynor opened her eyes the first person she caught sight of was our hero.

       "Ah! my dear boy. I knew you would find me."

       Then "King" gave a jealous bark, and looked from his mistress to Mickey.

       "So you are also here, old doggie. Well, I'm going to give you up to Mr. Morgan, and to re-christen him Prince in honour of yourself. Do you think £500 will keep him for the rest of his life, my friend?"

       "I should like to have him without 500 pence," said Mickey.

No. 7. — THE BLANK-STREET MURDER
WILL APPEAR ON MONDAY.

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       All Cardiff was shocked at its breakfast table one morning on reading the details of a double murder committed during the night at a house in Blank-street. A father and his son had been stabbed in the most brutal manner, but who the assassin was, how he gained access to the house, and by what means he left not the slightest clue could be found. The only other inmate of the house was the wife of the murdered man and mother of the boy; and even the police could not allow any suspicions to attach to that poor woman. She seemed dazed almost to helplessness, and, in the opinion of all who knew her, was as incapable of carrying out an execution even on a blue bottle as was the Lord High Executioner of Titipoo. But the queer thing was that, though always a slight sleeper, she declared that nothing of an unusual character occurred during the night, and her slumbers were not disturbed in the slightest. When she awakened in the morning she found her husband dead at her side, and in another bed in the same room her little boy also cold in death. Both had been stabbed through the heart, and, as appeared afterwards at the inquest, death had in each case been instantaneous. William Gordon, the murdered man had been living for many years in Cardiff working as a coal-trimmer at the Docks, and was known as a quiet, reserved man, neither making many friends nor many enemies. He was attentive to his business, and was regarded by his neighbours as a model husband and father. That he had saved some money was generally supposed, but robbery could not have been the object of the murder, for not a single article of any kind had been taken away, and a purse, which contained a sovereign and some silver, was left undisturbed on the dressing-table. The police were very much puzzled over the whole affair; and, though unwilling to confess their inability to discover the least clue as to the perpetrator or perpetrators of the crime, it was generally believed, both by press and public, that, in spite of all their efforts, the matter was likely to remain a mystery for all time. At the inquest some particulars as to Gordon's early life came out. He had been a sailor for some years, visiting many foreign ports, but always conducting himself in that quiet way which had distinguished him in Cardiff. As far as was known, he had never quarrelled with anyone in his life; certainly not with his neighbours or fellow-workmen in Cardiff, and those who knew him best declared their belief that he had not an enemy in the world. His movements during the days preceding the murder were fully inquired into, and nothing in the least suspicious could he found out. He had not been seen talking to anybody beyond his fellow-workmen and one or two neighbours he had met at the Docks. Each day, as soon as his work was done, he went directly to his house, on two or three occasions afterwards proceeding to the free library, where he was a very frequent visitor. There was one thing which troubled the police not a little — they were unable to find out to what part of the country he belonged, and, strange as it may seem not even his wife knew where his early days had been passed. She did not even know where he was born, though from the name, as well as one or two other circumstances, she judged his father to have been a Scotchman. Still, he had not the least trace of the Scottish accent, nor, indeed, of any ether accent, beyond what might be expected of any one who had lived and worked for a number of years amongst Welshmen. For it was shown that Gordon had for a time at least, when big money could be earned at it, worked as a collier in the Rhondda. But all this helped very little to throw light on the mystery surrounding his murder. The medical evidence went to show that the murder had been committed with an exceedingly fine stiletto or dagger, such as are not usually to be bought in England; and although on the face of it this might point to a foreigner as the assassin, yet the number of such instruments to be always found in seaport towns took away any special significance the fact might possess. Another thing the evidence at the inquest made plain was that Gordon, in spite of his avocations, was a well-educated man, and knew at least superficially three or four foreign languages. Amongst his books were found some French, Italian, and Spanish works, and one of his amusements was to teach his boy this latter language. But real evidence as to the crime itself there was none, and the verdict had to be given, as everyone expected, "Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown."

       Now, it may be presumed that Mickey Morgan had his curiosity attracted by this case. He had no special commission to assist the police, and his employer, Mr. Norman, objected to his taking any interest in a case where a direct retaining fee was not forthcoming. Still, there was a reward of £50 offered for such information as would lead to the discovery of the murderer, and, more potent than all, his new friend, Mrs. Traynor, took a lively interest in the case, and, with Mrs. Simmons, felt convinced that, the profoundest mystery could not escape the insight and acuteness of our hero. Mrs. Traynor was now free from the clutches of her mother-in-law. The latter lady, having narrowly escaped a prosecution for conspiracy, was glad to hide her diminished head in a London suburb, leaving the young widow to live her own life in peace. Now, Mrs. Traynor, availing herself of the first liberty she had enjoyed for months, paid a visit to poor Mrs. Gordon, partly to satisfy her curiosity by a sight of the lady, and partly with the more laudable object of offering the bereaved creature, the shelter of her house should she stand in need of it. Like every one else, she saw at once that poor Mrs. Gordon could have had no part in the murder of her husband and child, and, what's more, that, in spite of the helplessness into which she had been thrown by her loss, she was still capable of seeking; revenge or justice against the unknown. Mrs. Traynor encouraged this feeling in her, and offered to undertake part of the expense of a private inquiry and to induce Mickey Morgan to take up the case. She knew as regards our hero himself she could command his services; but she was not so certain as to what Mr. Norman would have to say on the subject. But Mr. Norman was a detective principally because he found it as convenient a way as any other of making money; and when Mrs. Traynor handed him over a respectable sum he did not see any reason for refusing to take up the case.

       "It is, though, as you know, madam, a case which should be left entirely in the hands of the police, and I believe they will strongly resent our interference in the matter. However," he concluded, "you must have your way, and, besides, we are not very busy just now."

       So Mickey Morgan got his instructions, and set about a task which even he considered hopeless. Having visited Mrs. Gordon, and found little for his pains, he took the dog "Prince" for a long walk in the direction of Barry Docks, not with any view of finding anything that would lead to the discovery of the murder, but simply with the object of thinking the matter out. As has already been stated, he had a habit of communicating his thoughts to the dogs of his acquaintance, and now on a lonely part of the road he allowed "Prince" a full measure of his confidence on the Gordon case.

       "It seems to me, my boy," he said, "that the first thing to be found out is the early history of Gordon, but how are you and I going to do it? He has been living about ten years in Cardiff and the neighbourhood, but where was he before? Before that date nothing is known, and, maybe, his name was not Gordon at all. We can't tell, but Mrs. Traynor wants us to find out, and we must do our best. Gordon, they say, was a gentleman in many of his ways, but gentlemen do not, as a rule, work as colliers and coal-trimmers. They're not fond of hard work, "Prince," my lad, and small blame to him. I don't think I should like myself to go about again with a dirty face and dirty hands, though I'm not much of a gentleman."

       "Prince" entirely concurred in this view of the case, more particularly as he had a strong dislike to coal dust, which hid a nasty habit of sticking to his generally dripping long hair. "Prince" could never resist the temptation of a plunge even in the coldest weather. Sea or canal or river was all the same to him when it was solely a matter of pursuing a stick, but when, on hot days, he wanted to indulge in the additional luxury of a drink he particularly resented the saline properties of the sea, and had a strong suspicion that the Atlantic Ocean had salted itself for the sole purpose of plaguing him.

       Mickey Morgan was one of those individuals who find suggestions in everything. As we have said, he had no particular object in going towards Barry on this day, but he looked at even the hoppings and chirpings, of the birds on the way as something from which a helpful idea might be extracted. It was actually whilst looking at a fight between two sparrows that the thought, came into his head that some light might be thrown on the Gordon affair by finding out in the free library what particular class of literature the deceased was in the habit of reading there. With the object of following up this idea, he at once abandoned his walk, and, returning to his lodgings, left "Prince" there, and went at once to the reference library. By the courtesy of the librarian he was allowed to look through an accumulation of those slips which readers have to fill up on applying for books at the counter, and was rewarded by finding several in the name of William Gordon, Blank-street. Amongst the books asked for were novels by well known authors, histories, biographies, and a large number of books of travel. It was to this latter class that our hero determined to pay most attention. He looked through a number of them without finding anything to help him, but a work, entitled "The English in South America," gave him an idea which he thought might help to put him on the right track. The bock opened at a chapter on football, and looked as if that particular part of the subject had received an unusual amount of attention on the part of Gordon or somebody else. Amongst the incidents quoted in connection with one of the matches was one relating to a theatrical incident, which occurred in an Argentine theatre many years before. It was at a small port, which was also the terminus of a railway, and Englishmen from all parts had collected together to see a match played under very unusual circumstances. A large amount of money was involved in the issue of the game. One rich ranchero had staked twenty thousand dollars with another that he could get up a Rugby team amongst the sons of Englishmen born in the country who could beat any team the newcomers could bring together. As amongst the recent importations into the country had been a large number of engineers and others who had been public school men, the bet was considered by many to be a foolish one. But the game came off, and nothing was scored on either side except a few broken limbs, which, much to the disgust of the spectators, could not be counted as goals. That night a large number of the footballers visited the local theatre, where a company of Italian artistes were giving "Fra Diavolo." The prima donna, happening to cast her eye towards the boxes occupied by the Englishmen, suddenly ceased her singing, and, rushing off the stage, the next moment appeared in one of the boxes with a stiletto in her hand and fury in her eye. But the man she sought had disappeared. It afterwards transpired that the artiste had known one of the footballers in Italy; that he had betrayed her, and then deserted her. She vowed vengeance against him, and the sweetheart from whom he had stolen her joined hands with her in a determination to run the enemy down. The name of the man was not given in the? book, but Mickey Morgan thought that it could be no other than that of William Gordon. To give more probability to the supposition a Signorina Cecchini was amongst the artistes appearing at cue of the Cardiff theatres on the week the murder was committed, and on the track of this signorina he determined to get at one". He had really very little grounds to go upon, but, after all, there was nothing impossible in the theory he had formed, and in the absence of any other clue it deserved immediate consideration. An inquiry at the theatre revealed to him the fact that Signorina Cecchini, accompanied by her husband, had gone to fulfil an engagement at Manchester, and Mickey Morgan, who never let the grass grow under his feet when hot upon the scent of his prey, quickly transferred himself to that city. He had no difficulty in finding out the lodgings of the Italian actress, and was fortunate enough in being able to secure rooms in the same house. His object was, of course, to seek for evidence amongst the belongings of the Cecchinis, and, if possible, to play the eavesdropper over their conversations. Accordingly the very first night after his arrival he made an attempt to open the boxes of the two Italians, but they baffled all his efforts. Mr. Norman, he knew, had a fine set of skeleton keys, and these he telegraphed for, receiving them about ten o'clock on the following morning. During the day he had no opportunity of making a second attempt on the boxes, and he had to again await the time of their absence at the theatre. He had seen the signorina several times, and had to confess to himself that she did not look like a murderess, while the other, whom she addressed as Paolo, looked a good-natured little man, who, though a foreigner, might easily pass for one who respected the Ten Commandments. But, as Mickey had already found out, it was not safe to trust to looks in these cases, and he was determined to go on. This time the skeleton keys did their work, and, after much searching, he found in one of the compartments of a writing-case a stiletto which would answer to that described by the doctors at the inquest. Before leaving for Manchester he had found out that Signorina Cecchini, on the night of the murder, had been out very late, spending a few hours, she said, with some of the other ladies of the company, but generally she passed the evenings with her husband. The stiletto was wrapped in a blood-stained handkerchief, and at first, instead of confirming our hero in his suspicions, this fact only argued in favour of the signorina's innocence. If she had been guilty of the murder, he thought, she never would be fool enough to carry the blood of her victim around with her. But then it dawned upon him that he had read somewhere that many Italians have the habit of preserving such mementoes of their revenge, which otherwise would not be considered complete. He re-placed the stiletto in its hiding-place, however, and determined to wire that night for Mr. Norman, advising him at the same time to bring a police officer with him.

       That evening he again pursued his tactics of concealing himself under the table, and, although he only heard Italian spoken between the two. yet he distinguished enough to be able to satisfy himself that he was on the right track. The name Gordon was mentioned several times, as well as the South American town in which the incident in connection with the theatre took place. He also recognised the word, "vendetta," as one likely have reference to the murder.

       When Mr. Norman and the police officer arrived they fully concurred with his view of the case, and determined to take action at once.

       But they never arrested Signorina Cecchini. That lady had a distinct objection to the English manner of executions, and when she saw the incriminating dagger in the hands of the policeman she quickly snatched it from him and buried it in her own breast.

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No. 8. — THE LOST FOOTBALLER.

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       The Cardiff Football Club had tied with another famous local team in the final for the championship. Both clubs had begun to put in a lot of practice in preparation for a second struggle, and the Cardiffians were in high glee as to their prospects of winning, when a great calamity befel them. Their full-back, Henry Morlan, without a word of explanation, suddenly disappeared, and the whole aspect of affairs was changed in a moment. Morlan was recognised as the best player in Wales, if not in the world, and, though there were many good men capable of taking his place in an ordinary match, his absence on the occasion of a re-play with their present opponents would represent the difference between victory and defeat to the Cardiff club. To tell the truth about Morlan, he was sometimes inclined to think more about John Barleycorn than football, and it required a good deal of watching and more or less moral suasion to keep him to the mark on ordinary occasions. When great issues were at stake, however, he had never before failed; and his friends were certain that unless some untoward accident had befallen him he would on the present occasion turn up to time. But when two days passed without the committee or his friends being able to discover any trace of him, even the most sanguine were inclined to give up hope. It was then that some one suggested the calling in of Mickey Morgan, and our hero, who was a great admirer of the best footballer, was only too anxious to undertake the search.

       As far as had been previously found out, he had returned from a practice, taken his tea, and, following his usual custom, had gone out to pass the evening with some friends. His landlady understood it was his intention to visit the Empire or one of the theatres during the night, but no one had seen him at any of these places. His face being well known to the attendants and ticket-collectors, the probability of his being able to pass in and out of any place of amusement in Cardiff without being recognised was remote in the extreme. He had, besides, made an appointment to meet one of his comrades at a certain public-house in St. Mary-street, but, though his friend waited for him an hour, he neither turned up nor sent a message. This was the stranger because, whatever his other failings, he had the reputation of keeping his convivial appointments religiously. Inquiries had also been made at the railway stations, but none of the officials had seen him. Even the police cells had been suggested at his temporary lodging-place, but, though he was known almost to every officer in the town, they were as little able to throw light on the subject, as the ordinary public.

       It will be seen, then, that when Mickey Morgan began his search he had very little information to go upon. Had poaching been in vogue in those days he would have come to the conclusion, like many others, that the famous full-back had voluntarily surrendered himself to some Northern agent, but as it was there was no probability of any such move on his part.

       The first thing our hero did was to go amongst his quondam colleagues, the newspaper lads, and offer a reward for even a suggestion that might help to lead to the discovery of the missing man. He wandered here, there, and everywhere, talking casually with the news lads and bringing in as a matter of course the name of Henry Morlan. But even from this source he was unable to glean any information. He went down to the docks and wandered about there amongst the coal tips in search of information. The thought had struck him that Morlan might have been tempted on board some outward bound boat and carried away to sea. But to Mr. Norman, to whom he mentioned this supposition, the idea seemed improbable. None of the 'bus or tram drivers had seen the absent man on the evening of his disappearance; nor had he employed any of the cabbies on that day. Still, our hero persisted in following up the notion, and took steps to find out the names of the boats that had left that night. Two tramp steamers had started for foreign ports, and the Galtee had left for Waterford. To this latter he determined to pay most attention. Had Morlan been carried to Oporto or Malaga — the first calls of the foreign-bound ships — he would not in any case be able to return in time for the game. On the other hand, our hero had three clear days before him, which might be enough to enable him to undertake a hurried search in the Irish port.

       He consulted the clearing clerk who had despatched the Galtee, and learned there were a few passengers on board; amongst them being the son of one of the owners of the boat, who was an Irish International football player. This information was balm to the soul of Mickey Morgan.

       "The Irish," he mused, "are queer people, and do all kinds of wild things. I've seen them myself, and I've read a lot more about them. To steal a footballer for purposes of their own would be nothing to them, and who knows if they are not in league with the opposition team? I think I'll go to Waferford: 'tis my mother's country, and I would like to see it in any case."

       He explained the state of his feelings to Mr. Norman, and, although that gentleman held out no hopes as to the success of his journey, he put no opposition in the way. The time-table was consulted, and it was found out that by starting at once he would be able to reach Dublin in time to catch the Southern express the following morning. Providing himself, then, with a quantity of newspapers to read on the way, he started for Holyhead. Arriving there, he purchased a copy of the "Freeman's Journal," and, getting on board the Shamrock, set himself to study the affairs of Ireland. Like all young Cardiffians, he was more interested in athletics than politics, so turned to the columns devoted to sport. One paragraph particularly attracted his attention. It ran as follows:—

       "Great interest is being attracted in football circles to the match to be played on Saturday at Waterford between a team selected by Mr. Manney, of that city, and a Dublin team to be captained by Mr. Burke. The Dublin men are all to be members of local clubs. whilst more latitude is being permitted to the Waterford men, the only condition, imposed being that the players must be living or have lived in the county. Betting men are interesting themselves very much in the match, and for some reason or other the odds at present are in favour of the Southern team. This state of affairs seems only to be explained by the fact that Mr. Manney has something up his sleeve, and that some heavy bets have been made with Dublin bookies by backers of the Waterford team. A special train starts from Dublin on Saturday morning, which will give Metropolitan lovers of the game an opportunity of witnessing this interesting contest."

       Mickey Morgan read and re-read this paragraph, and the more he thought of it the more likely did it seem to throw light on the subject of Henry Morlan's disappearance.

       "I would not be surprised at all," he mused, "if this Mr. Manney had been to Cardiff and carried away our full back. But, then, if they carried him away, it does not seem likely they could mane him play against his will. However," he concluded, "I will soon find out."

       The boat had already started, and so Mickey, even had he been 80 minded, was not given an opportunity of re-tracing his steps. As is common in Dublin boats, card parties were at once formed, and our hero, not being interested in these proceedings, went on deck. Though born in a seaport town, he had so far enjoyed no opportunity of a sea voyage, and was much interested in the spectacle before him. The lights of the harbour, the chatter and laughter of the numerous passengers, the political discussions, the speculations as to the probability of a calm voyage, all interested him, and he felt so elated and sanguine that before the breakwater had been passed he already saw himself triumphant and coming back to Cardiff in company with the great Morlan, bringing hope and victory to the despondent footballers of his native town. But half an hour after poor Mickey's thoughts were less rosy. The Irish people may be now and again turbulent, but the Irish Sea is nearly always so; and happy is the man who can get to Dublin on his first voyage without experiencing that terrible infirmity which, for politeness' sake, the ladies are accustomed to allude to as "mal de mer." Mickey was prostrate, and in his terrible abandon threw himself on a bench with his head resting in the lap of a good-natured Irish woman, who was herself suffering not a little.

       "Who is that, boy — is he your son, Mrs. Murphy?" asked a lady, who at this time came up from the cabin.

       "No, he's not my son, Miss Carney. I don't know whose son he is — but he's very bad, poor boy."

       "And do you consider it right to nurse a big, strange lad like that — with his head in your lap an' all?"

       "Oh he came himself; and how could I turn him away."

       Miss Carney was not so tender-hearted, and at once set about relieving her friend of her burden.

       "Come, come, my boy. Get up — you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

       Mickey was entirely indifferent to this remonstrance, and took not the least notice of Miss Carney.

       That lady became impatient, and blurted out:

       "If you don't get up at once, you naughty boy. I'll call Mrs. Murphy's husband to throw you overboard."

       Our hero was at last aroused, but, instead of being terrified at the threat, answered mildly:—

       "I wish you would, miss. I do so want to die, and would commit suicide if it was'nt a sin."

       "Go away, Miss Carney; leave the poor lad alone. Can't you see how he's suffering?"

       Miss Carney did go away, but presently returned with a big, burly, good-natured looking man, who, instead of executing summary chastisement on our young detective, burst into a loud, boisterous laugh.

       "Well, you poor little divil. Upon me sowl I'm sorry for you; but I cannot allow you to tire my wife. Begor, she'll be tired enough before she gets to Waterford."

       The word Waterford did more to cure our hero of his sickness than all the drugs of the pharmacopœia could have done. He at once jumped to his feet and asked:—

       "Do you come from Waterford, sir."

       "Faith, I do, my laddie, and, what's more, I'm going there, unless you run away with my wife; in which case, of course, I will kill you and go to America."

       "I'm going to Waterford myself; and I've never been to Ireland before. Perhaps you'll tell me something about the place, sir?"

       Mickey Morgan's paroxysm of sea-sickness passed away as quickly as it came, and he now descended to the cabin with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, and the terrible Miss Carney. Over a brandy and soda and a soda without brandy Mickey began his examination.

       "Do you know a Mr. Manney in Waterford, sir?"

       "Do I know the River Suir or the toll bridge? Everyone in the province knows Mike Manney, and a queer divil he is."

       "What does he do?"

       "What does he do? Begor he spends money like a lord, and his ould father pays it."

       "Does he play football?"

       "Oh, faith, he does, and a lot of other things."

       "What does his father do — is he a shipowner?"

       "He's a big man in a ship company, so I suppose he's a shipowner. But why these questions?"

       "Well, sir, I want to see Mr. Manney, and that's the reason why I'm going to Ireland."

       Mickey did not like to admit his new friend too far into his confidence. Being a Waterford man, he would naturally sympathise with Manney, and would, in all probability, advise that gentleman as to his movements.

       Dublin was reached at last, and in an hour afterwards our hero was speeding through Kildare, catching sight of the famous Curragh by the first morning light. Few incidents of any kind occurred on the journey downward, though Mr. Murphy pointed out every point of interest on the way. Arriving at Waterford, Mickey Morgan thought it well to refuse the hospitality kindly offered him by his fellow-passengers, and made his way to the principal hotel. He had eaten nothing since leaving Holyhead, and now for the first time set about breaking bread in "the most distressful country that ever yet was seen"; and, in spite of his recent illness, did astonishing justice to the good things set before him. His dinner over, he set out to walk along the quay, crossed the toll bridge, and went directly towards Mr. Manney's house. He entered a public-house in the neighbourhood, and shyly questioned the barman as to the movements of the younger Mr. Manney.

       "Yes, he had been absent lately — over in England, or up in Dublin," Mike could not tell which, "but, sure, he was always goin' away — the divil a race or football match in the counthry he did'nt go to. But he was back now in any case."

       "Did he bring anyone with him?"

       "Wisha, faith he did — a fine block of a man — an Englishman, I think, by his talk. Shure, they were here half an hour ago."

       "And where are they now?"

       "Begor, I believe they're out for a row on the river in Mr. Manney's own boat. Shure, if ye want to see them come back ye've only to go to the door."

       Mickey Morgan did go to the door, and was not a little delighted to see Harry Morlan looking as hearty and as fit as ever he looked in his life, walking arm in arm with a young gentleman whom he felt sure could be no other than "that divil of a Manney."

       Mickey, as we have just said, was delighted, but he was also astonished. He had the idea all along that Morlan had been spirited on board the Galtee, and forcibly detained; but how could such be the case when he now saw him arm in arm with his abductor? The thing was incomprehensible, unless on the understanding that Morlan was a traitor, and such was not his reputation in Cardiff. Mickey thought he would solve his doubts at once. Touching Mr. Morlan on the shoulder, he said:

       "Can I say one word to you in private, sir?"

       "Certainly, my boy, what is it?"

       Mr. Manney did not offer to walk on.

       "I said in private, sir; will you please come this way?"

       "Well, here we are — what can I do for you?"

       "Why did you run away, Mr. Morlan, without a word to your committee?"

       "What! You know me! But my committee surely know all about it."

       "Your committee knows nothing about it — they're all gone wild, thinking you are killed, and they'll lose the game."

       "Look here, my little fellow, who are you, and what's your little game?"

       "My name is Mickey Morgan, sir, a kind of a detective, and the committee have paid me to try to find you."

       "What! Are you Mickey Morgan? Well, I'm glad to meet so famous a man. But you're surely under a delusion. I had a wire from the secretary three days ago saying the match was postponed — look."

       As he spoke he pulled a telegram from his pocket.

       "All right, old man; enjoy yourself; game postponed. Be back in a week — Jones."

       "That telegram is a forgery, sir. Mr. Jones does not know where you are, and the game is not postponed."

       "Look here, Manney," he shouted, beckoning to that gentleman; "by heavens, I believe you've humbugged me. Who sent this telegram?"

       Mr. Manney looked a bit confused, but then broke out into a laugh.

       "My dear fellow, what's the matter with you? You have only just told me you're enjoying your holiday immense. Why not leave the cares of football behind you for the present?"

       "Who sent this telegram?"

       "Well, if you must know, it was your friend, Griffith Osmond. He wants to play in your stead, I presume. At any rate, he told me the club would do better without you, and put me up to the little fake I practised upon you."

       Morlan's face was a study. He had in one way been well treated by Manney, and could not get up the necessary amount of indignation against him; but if his rival Osmond had been there just then it would have fared badly with him. As it was, he was half inclined to knock Manney down, and may have attempted to do so, if our hero had not given him other thoughts.

       "It's all right, sir. No harm done; we've time to catch the Dublin train — so come on."

       "Mickey Morgan, you're a brick and no Mistake — but d—n you Manney, I can't be cross with you. Your rowing has kept me in condition at any rate — so good-bye."

       "Oh, I'll go and see you off; but you're a couple of hundred pounds out of my pocket. I shall lose the game and my bets.">

       "Well, I'm sorry for that. If it were any other match I should stop and play with you."

       When the telegram announcing the successful issue of our hero's search reached Cardiff there was great rejoicing, and special editions of the evening papers came out to herald the fact.

       On the way back Morlan explained that he had been invited to spend an hour on board by Manney. There were a few bottles of champagne uncorked, and before he knew where he was the ship was on the move. Arriving in Waterford he at once despatched through Manney, a telegram to the Cardiff secretary, but it must have gone to Osmond instead, who answered as we have seen.

       Morlan never played better than on that famous day when he returned from Ireland, and Griffith Osmond lost his place in the team.

       Cardiff won a hard fought victory, and the most delighted of the spectators and enthusiastic of the applauders was Mickey Morgan.

No. 9. — THE MYSTERIOUS SHEBEEN.

---

       Life had almost become unbearable for Sergeant Cotter. He knew of a certainty that a shebeen was carried on at No. 8, Danvers-street, but hitherto all his efforts to gain palpable evidence had failed. He had seen men come out from there under the influence of drink; he had heard of gallons of whisky going in; but, though he had entered and searched the house three times, not the slightest trace of illicit trading could he find. The owner of the establishment was a lady of Jewish features and Jewish proclivities, with as much cunning, the sergeant thought, as would, fairly divided, satisfy the requirements of a dozen Gentiles. She was too cunning, at any rate, for the Cardiff police. She actually laughed at our poor sergeant when she met him one day in the street. The worst of it was that the superintendent was with him.

       "Who is that woman?" asked the latter.

       "Oh, a Jewess who lives in Danvers-street, and the greatest shebeener in Cardiff, though I can never get tip any evidence against her."

       "How do you know that she is a sheeeener?"

       "I know by her impudent face, for one thing; and I have more than once seen men leaving her house under the influence of drink. So has Constable Wilcox."

       "Pity you can't catch her. It seems to me that no one can do anything in Cardiff now without the help of Mickey Morgan. What do you say if we put the lad upon her track? He looks so innocent that he could pass where one of us would be spotted at once."

       "I don't like giving in, sir, and am very anxious to have another turn at her myself."

       "Oh, very well, but if you fail we will see what can be done with Mickey."

       From this day Sergeant Cotter redoubled his efforts. He even went so far as to adopt a disguise, a course which ordinarily he considered a weakness unbecoming a man in his position. He had the house watched night and day, before and behind. One Saturday night he was gratified to see a two-gallon jar of something go in by the back door.

       "Ha! ha!" muttered the sergeant, imitating the man in the play, "I'll have her to-morrow."

       Mrs. Moses kept a tobacco shop on a small scale, and, as she never scorned to open on Sundays, a large number of people entered her establishment on that day. With Sergeant Cotter's eyes. Sergeant Cotter saw some of these go behind the counter and enter the small room at the back which on week days was used as a barber's shop. They did not, as a rule, stop long, but he could swear he saw some or them smacking their lips as they came out. One individual with a long moustache showed palpable signs of having imbibed something during the few minutes he remained inside. The sergeant did not smoke, neither did he drink, but secure in his disguise he entered the tobacco shop, and, throwing down a shilling, ordered a threepenny packet of cigarettes. Rebecca, junior, was serving, and smiled as she handed him his packet. The sergeant looked appealingly at her:

       "I say, miss, do you think you could give me something to drink for the change? In this confounded town, unless one is a member of a club, or knows the lines, it is almost impossible to get anything stronger than water on a Sunday."

       "All right, sir; if you pass into the next room, I'll let you have a drink. You say I may keep the change? Thank you, sir."

       The sergeant's heart bounded in ecstacy.

       "I have them at last," thought he. He entered and found two men quietly smoking and reading the previous day's "Western Mail." Rebecca opened a cupboard, drew a cork, and handed the sergeant a bottle of ginger-beer. He put it to his lips, expecting to find a strong flavour of whisky. But, no; it was ordinary cheap ginger-beer. Sergeant Cotter did not drink it. He looked at the little Jewess and said, insinuatingly:—

       "You have missed something out, miss. The ginger-beer is all right, I know but one expects a little adulteration for ninepence."

       "What, do you mean, sir? It is just as we get it, and we don't know how to adulterate."

       "Come now, my nice young lady, don't play the innocent. I was told by a friend I would be able to get something strong here, and it is too bad of you to keep me waiting like this."

       "Really, really, I don't know what you mean — but I will call mamma."

       The elder Rebecca came downstairs, and inquired, "Vat iss eet, mein tear?"

       The young lady looked knowingly at her mother, and answered:—

       "This gentleman wants you to put something strong in the ginger-beer. Have you got anything, ma?"

       "Eef de gentleman weel geeve you two pennies you can breeng soom jalop from de chemists for heem."

       The sergeant swore under his breath, but spoke mildly enough:—

       "Come, mother, give me a little whisky or rum: I've not tasted a drop to-day."

       "Vell, you know I haf no wheeskey, Sergeant Cotter; ant eef I hat you vould not get anny of eet."

       The two Rebeccas laughed in his face, and so did the other two occupants of the room.

       "It's your turn to laugh now, ma'am," shouted the discomfited sergeant, "but, by jingo, I'll have you yet. Give me my change."

       "Oh, no, sergeant, you told me I could keep it, and I'm sure you can be no gentleman to ask such a thing."

       The worthy police-officer went heme and threw off his disguise in disgust. Nor did he return to Danvers-strest again that day.

       Greatly to his disgust, one of the newspapers gave an account of the affair, and for weeks after the poor sergeant had to stand several sieges of chaff from his brother officers and some too familiar members of the public, and, worse than all, some street urchins began to speak in his presence of ginger-beer at ninepence a bottle. Flesh and blood could not stand it, and, even if he had to submit to the humiliation of calling in Mickey Morgan, he was determined to have revenge upon the two Rebeccas. Had he been in Paris he would have, no doubt, shouted with the mob, "A pas les Juifs!" as the fickle canaille of that city are shouting at the present moment. As it was, Sergeant Cotter began to take decided views on the subject of alien immigration, and, if a wish could have annihilated the whole Jewish race, he would have out-Heroded Herod in the thoroughness of his extirpation.

       One day he met Mickey Morgan in the street.

       "How are you, my little man?" said he, genially.

       "Very well, sergeant, thank you. But I'm not so little after all. Why, I'll soon be big enough to enlist for a soldier; but I think I would make a better policeman."

       "No doubt, no doubt; you would make a good policeman, Mickey. Why, you are almost one as it is, and do the most wonderful things. I wish I was as clever as you."

       Though the worthy sergeant said this by way of flattering our hero, in his inmost soul the wish found a re-echo.

       "Have you ever discovered a shebeen, my friend?"

       "How could I when you have discovered them all?"

       "Don't be sarcastic, Mickey, or I'll lock you up for contempt of the law. And don't look down too scornfully upon us from your great height — we deserve pity sometimes, my friend."

       "What's the matter now, sergeant — has anything gone wrong? Oh, yes, I remember — that bottle of ginger-beer."

       "Don't speak to me of ginger-beer or Jews; they are the two subjects I cannot discuss with anything like judicial coolness. But, seriously, would you mind helping me to discover a shebeen?"

       "I would do anything for you, sergeant, in reason: but, you know, I am strongly opposed to Sunday Closing, and if you want to put down shebeening you must open the public-houses."

       "You may be right or you may be wrong on that point, but in either case you or I cannot alter the present state of things. I know where illicit trading is carried on beyond all doubt, but I cannot get evidence to convict — you must help me, Mickey."

       "I am under the orders of my employer, Mr. Norman, and if he tells me to help you I will do what I can. But my heart is not in that kind of work."

       "Well, well; I shall see Mr. Norman one of these days, and I have no doubt he will order you to help us."

       That very evening Sergeant Cotter mentioned the matter to his superintendent, and the latter undertook to see Mr. Norman on the subject of Rebccca and her shebeen.

       As may have been expected that gentleman was quite willing to render any assistance in his power to the authorities, and willingly placed Mickey at the disposal of the sergeant. Our hero, as he stated himself, did not like this kind of work, but he knew the necessity of obedience, and at once became a customer at the shop in Danvers-street. In those days he smoked inordinately, and Rebecca, junior, began to look upon him as one of the proprietors of the establishment. Danvers-street lay out of his beat in the days when he gained his living as a newsboy, and very few in the neighbourhood were acquainted with his face. At any rate, the two Jewesses were sublimely ignorant of the fact that the innocent-looking boy, who was such an inveterate smoker, was the famous detective, and never for a moment dreamed that he would turn out to be their greatest enemy. One day, in talking to Rebecca who was really a good-looking lass, but, in our hero's opinion, nothing to compare with Mrs. Traynor, the name of Mickey Morgan was mentioned.

       "What a wonderful boy he is," said the young Jewess, "I should very much like to see him."

       "Oh! there's nothing grand about him," said Mickey, "I've seen him many a time, and I think his cleverness is more luck than anything else."

       "Oh! dear me, that cannot be; look at all the wonderful things he has done! How he traced that boy Harry Simmons and poor Mrs. Traynor, and went all the way to Ireland by himself to bring back Mr. Morlan. Why, there is not another boy in the world who could have done it."

       "Perhaps not, miss, if they didn't have the same luck. But, I think, if the clues were put into my hand I would be quite as clever as he."

       "You conceited boy! But could you find the clues? Mickey Morgan does find them in a way that grown up men cannot imitate."

       With the barber also our hero became on familiar terms, and frequently resorted to his room to consult the newspapers. There wasn't a feature of the place, not an article of furniture he did not impress on his memory, and at night times before going to sleep he got into the habit of calling up before his mind's eye in the hopes of being able to get some idea that would help to throw light upon the subject. Like Sergeant Cotter, he had watched the place on Sundays, and came to the same conclusion — there was surely a shebeen carried on there. He was sorely puzzled, not to say humiliated, and, whatever his feelings may have been at first, he was soon thoroughly interested in the case, and felt that should he fail his reputation would suffer. One night when he was most despondent an inspiration came to him.

       "It is very queer," he mused, "that those who enter that back room scarcely ever stop above a few minutes, and yet I'm sure there is no one there to serve them. That they drink something I'm sure, for I've seen them wipe their lips — but, good Lord, I have it! I have it!"

       He could not sleep any more that night, and the first thing in the morning saw him in the barber's room. Like all the other inmates of the establishment, the barber was a Jew, and was exceedingly reticent in his conversation with those of the Gentile race, but with our hero he somehow seemed to have melted a little, and many a time when things were quiet left him in sole possession of his room. Fortunately for his purpose, such was the case on the present occasion, and as soon as the barber's back was turned he put himself to examine minutely a penny-in-the-slot gas meter, which stood in a corner of the room. It resembled very closely all the other machines of the kind our hero had seen, and, superficially at least, had no special feature of its own. The slot was there, and Mickey Morgan tried to press a penny into it, but it was obstructed from the inside. Then he noticed a screw on one side which seemed to be brighter than other parts of the machine, as if it had been handled a good deal. This he quickly unscrewed, and was rewarded by exhaling a strong smell of whisky.

       "They never would sell a pennyworth of whisky in a shebeen," he mused. "Let me see what sixpence will do."

       He was not fond of whisky, so, instead of putting his mouth to the aperture, he held up a handkerchief to absorb any liquid that might be discharged. Then, he let a sixpence drop in the slot, and a dose of fiery liquid fell into his handkerchief.

       This done he quickly returned the screw to its place, concealed the handkerchief, bought a packet of cigarettes, and went direct to the police-station. Both the superintendent and Sergeant Cotter were there.

       "Well, my little boy — any news? I suppose not, though," said the superintendent, "you are a better hand at discovering missing boys and young widows than mysterious shebeens. Well, we can't blame him — eh, sergeant? You know you failed yourself."

       "No, we cannot blame him, sir; but this shows what a lot of luck the little rascal has had in his other cases — sheer luck, I call it."

       "Come, come, sergeant, you must not deny him some merit. After all, he's very young, and may make a smart detective yet."

       "He is young, sir: but, in my opinion, these precocious boys do not improve with age. The chances are that when he is twenty-four he will be as dull as the dullest man in the force."

       "Oh, very well!" said Mickey Morgan, "I'll be as dull as yourself, and pay ninepence for a bottle of ginger-beer — but, I suppose, you don't want to hear anything, so good morning."

       "Stop, stop, my boy," shouted the superintendent, "don't take any notice of Sergeant Cotter; he is jealous of you, like all the rest of us. Have you found out anything?"

       "You asked me that question at first, sir; and then would not allow me to answer. Now, I'm almost inclined to hold my tongue."

       "Now Mr. Morgan," said the superintendent, appealingly, "you know how important this matter is, and if you can put us in the way of convicting Rebecca I will proclaim you the prince of detectives."

       "Well, sir, smell that," said Mickey, producing his saturated handkerchief.

       "Very bad whisky, Mr. Morgan; very bad, indeed."

       "Well. sir, I got that whisky out of a penny-in-the-slot machine at a cost of sixpence — 'twas cheaper, though, than Sergeant Cotter's ginger-beer.

       "Our hero could not refrain from giving this thrust to the sergeant, against whom he felt some resentment for the disparaging remarks quoted above.

       The whole matter was then explained to the officials of the law, and the following Sunday Rebecca's shebeen was pounced upon. She was convicted, of course, but to this day neither she nor her charming daughter are aware of the part our hero took in bringing about their downfall.

No. 10. — SAM ELSWORTH'S HAT.

---

       Mr. Sam Elsworth was a remarkable man in many ways. He had a nose of elephantine dimensions, to which sun and storm and the eternal combustion produced by continuous doses of Scotch whisky had given such a roseate hue as ever Burne Jones might in vain have tried to imitate. He was a big man, some 6ft. 4in. in height, 48in. chest measurement, and 18st. weight. He had a walk peculiarly his own, and a voice which the most perfectly-regulated telephone was incapable of transmitting. In this regard it is said he once endeavoured to transmit an item of news from the Rhondda Valley to Cardiff. The unfortunate young lady who received the message was only able to distinguish the single word "Pontypridd," and, thinking a thunderstorm was being communicated along the wires, fell into a faint. But the most remarkable thing about Mr. Elsworth was his hat. Everyone knew that hat; the public stared at it, the newsboys laughed at it, and the dogs barked at it. But Sam did not mind. He looked upon it as a valuable part of his stock-in-trade. It had seen with him every big horse race in England during the past 20 years, and he felt certain it would outlive him. He intended to bequeath it to his son, and have it handed down as a family heirloom to future generations. It had been battered in many a fight, borne heavenwards by many a wind, and, good-naturedly. blocked by many a comrade. It was an old-fashioned white cylinder of a pattern, to be met with nowadays only in pictures or statuary. On the subject of his headgear Sam was capable of enduring any amount of chaff, and when things got to the worst would break out into a verse of an old song he had heard over in Ireland. When Sam shouted out, in his big, sonorous voice:—

"'Tis the relics of ould dacency, The hat my father wore,"

Who was capable of indulging in further badinage on the subject? At other times, when in an egotistical humour, he would dilate on the merits of his hat, declaring it to be a noble hat, an honourable hat, a good old honest Tory hat, and as free from pretence as the man who wore it.

       Yet that much-prized article was the means of nearly bringing its admirer and owner, to ruin. Sam Elsworth was by profession a bookmaker. He was never guilty of the weakness of wearing a sash round his portly person, declaring to all and sundry that he was the great and only Sam Elsworth.

       "They'll know me by the hat," he would declare, "and they who don't know my hat are not worth knowing."

       At any rate, he never attended a race meeting without being able to attract more than his share of the backers, and, however the fortunes of the day might go, he always paid up like a man.

       "Old Sammy or his hat will never run away," the frequenters of the course would declare, and their confidence was not misapplied.

       One night Sam went to see a performance at the Grand Theatre, Cardiff. The piece was a poor one, and the audience poorer. The only redeeming feature about the night's entertainment was the presence of Sam and his hat in the dress circle. There was no one behind him, and so, having no fear of shutting out the stage from any fair lady, he considered it due to himself to leave his ancient stove pipe in the position it was so much calculated to adorn.

       Towards the end of the play a boy came to Mr. Elsworth and asked him, on the part of the manager, if he would allow him the hat for a few minutes, as he had made a bet about the size, and he wanted to convince his friend as to the abnormal proportions of Mr. Elsworth's head. After a little hesitation Sam gave a sorrowful consent to this temporary parting; but when fully fifteen minutes elapsed without bringing either message or hat from the manager he became uneasy.

       "Why," said he, "there must be a geological survey party taking the measurements. I could have told them the size without putting them to all this unnecessary trouble; but a bet's a bet, and I mustn't grumble."

       Another ten minutes passed and the curtain fell on the final scene.

       "Where the d—–l is my hat?" shouted Sam to one of the attendants.

       "I don't knew, sir; I saw it on your head some time ago."

       "I know you did; but the manager has borrowed it, and it was the least he could do to send it back."

       "The manager has not been here to-night, sir; he's up in London."

       "The deuce he is — then who has got my hat?"

       "Can't say, sir; I will ask the sub-manager."

       But the sub-manager knew nothing about it, neither did anybody else about the place, and, as for the boy, no one had taken particular notice of him. There were several boys in the theatre that night, but the ticket-collectors had seen none of them with Mr. Elsworth's hat. Sam was now in a rage and swore at everybody; then he became as pathetic as poor Sancho Panza when mourning for his ass.

       "To think that I've worn that hat for twenty years in hail and rain and snow and sunshine, and never intended to wear another; to think I've worn it so long and now to lose it in Cardiff. Why, gentlemen, 'tis enough to make one forsake his country, to turn Turk and wear a fez, or go stark-naked like the Red Indians."

       "I'm sure I'm very sorry for you, sir," said the sub-manager.

       "Yes — but where is my hat? I've sworn many a time never to wear another, and so help me, I never will — not if I had to give up the course to-morrow. And oh, goodness me," exclaimed the disconsolate bookie, "the Grand National is on Friday."

       The police were communicated with, and good-naturedly assumed an abnormal interest in Mr. Elsworth's loss. To do them justice, they did make some efforts to recover it, but their efforts were unavailing.

       Several days passed, and, though Sam drove round to one or two places in a cab. he always appeared bareheaded. It was cold March weather, and his medical adviser strongly remonstrated with him on the mad course he was pursuing. But poor Sam answered dejectedly:—

       "Let me me, doctor, let me die. I'm no good without my hat, and the sooner I go the better. It's a pity there is no next world for hats, doctor, or, so help me, I'd go there to look for it."

       Whether it was by reason of the exposure, or from some other cause, Sam fell ill, and even had he been inclined to go to Liverpool for the Grand National his bodily ailments would not have permitted him.

       I have not missed the race for 25 years, Tom," said he. speaking to his son, "and 'tis hard that in my old age I should be brought to this state. 'Tis hard, my boy, 'tis hard, and, worst of all, you will lose the hat — the hat your father wore, Tom, the relics of ould dacency and of the past, Tom,"

       "I'll tell you what it is, father. I'll speak to that young fellow, Mickey Morgan, about it. If it's in England he'll find it for you."

       "Do, Tom, bring him here at once."

       So Mickey Morgan, with the permission of Mr. Norman, was brought into the sick chamber.

       "Did you know my hat, my lad?"

       "Very well, sir; I've known it all my life."

       "Yes, and laughed at it, too, I'll be bound. How dare you have laughed at my hat, Mickey Morgan? How dare you, I say?"

       "I'm very sorry, sir. I'll never do it again."

       "That's right. Now you must find that hat or I'll lay my death upon your shoulders. As Tom here can tell you, I will not live without it."

       "Has Tom never laughed at your hat, sir?" asked Mickey, slyly.

       "Oh, I dare say he has, many a time. How could you have the heart, Tom, to laugh at your poor old father's hat?"

       "I've never laughed at it, father, but have fought many battles on its account. It was not nice to have boys offering me old hats to bring home to you and halfpennies to buy new ones."

       "Never mind, Tom, you're a good boy, and I'll forgive you. But, Mickey Morgan, start out at once and find my hat for me. Do you hear?"

       "Yes, sir. But will you answer me a question or two? Would you know the boy you gave it to?"

       "Not from Adam. It may have been yourself for ought I know. There's no telling — you may have done it to play a trick upon me, you young rascal."

       "No, sir: I don't play tricks upon my elders; and I was far away from the theatre that night. At least, I was in Newport. But can you give me no information of any kind to go upon?"

       "Not a scrap, not an atom. You've got the world before you, and you must find my hat in it."

       "Well, sir, I'll try, though it looks hopeless. When the ten pounds reward you offered for its recovery has not been sufficient to bring it back to you it is hard to see how I can succeed in tracing it; but, as I say, I'll try."

       Since the Bute-street murder our hero had had no such difficult case to work. Following out his usual custom when in a difficulty, he went for a country walk, taking "Prince" with him. This time they went towards Llandaff, taking the quieter paths through the fields.

       "Well now, will you tell me, doggie, how I'm going to solve this terrible mystery, and find Mr. Elworth's hat? Does it not seem absurd, Prince, to make such a bother about a hat — even big, fat Sam Elsworth's hat? But we must find it all the same. Now, what could anyone want with the hat? Either to claim ransom or for the purpose of impersonating Sam Elsworth himself. But if it were not for ransom the reward of £10 ought to be enough, surely, to tempt the holder to give it up and, as for personating big Sam, who could do it? Where could such a nose be found, my Prince? Why. only on the stage — in the pantomimes. I've seen such noses at the Royal and the Grand. And that reminds me. There was a big actor at the Grand last week, who might possibly make himself up to look like Sam. That's a thought worth following up, Prince. But for what purpose would he personate Mr. Elsworth? For nothing that I know of except to receive bets on a racecourse and then bolt with the stakes. That's what we call 'welshing,' Prince, and now, if you please, we will return home."

       The idea which Mickey Morgan communicated to his dog seemed probable enough on the face of it, and the strange thing was that Sam himself had never thought of it. The police, of course, could not be expected to enter into metaphysical speculations of the kind; and in any case, having made their one show of energy, were not likely to trouble themselves much further about the famous missing hat. When Mickey Morgan got back into the town he purchased a racing list, and began to look out the fixtures for the week. There were one or two minor events coming off, but the great races of the month were at Liverpool and the great day of all, the Grand National, to take place on the following Friday.

       "I wonder," said Mickey to himself, "if Sam is well known in Liverpool. At any rate, I suppose he is."

       But before deciding what course to adopt, he put the question to Mr. Elsworth himself, receiving the answer that he was as well known as the Aintree course itself. Mickey did not take Sam into his confidence as to the course he would pursue; but, after letting Mr. Norman know his intentions, started at once for the North. He arrived in Liverpool on Wednesday night, put up at the Stork Hotel, and the morning after was one of the earliest arrivals on the course at Aintree. He knew that Sam was an outside bookie, so felt no necessity of paying a guinea to enter the paddock, contenting himself with a position represented by a modest half-crown. The racing began, and, though Mickey Morgan explored the enclosure from one end to the other, he could see nothing resembling the headgear of Sam Elsworth. Then he shifted his quarters, entered the five shilling ring, without, however, paying the extra half-crown, and minutely, examined the faces of all the tall men he found there. It struck him that Harold Balland, the actor, whom he suspected of having appropriated Sam Elsworth's hat, may be biding his time for the big day on the morrow. But his searching was in vain. Lots of big men there were, but the actor was not amongst them. Mickey went back to his hotel disappointed, but hoping that the morrow would bring him better luck. The Stork is a sporting house, and at supper he heard the merits of the different horses discussed. One enthusiastic Irishman recommended him to put his shirt on Avonmore, but Mickey, who had not brought any change of linen with him, refused this advice. Friday morning came, and our hero once more betook himself to Aintree. He wandered about as before, terribly anxious, and as he passed bookie after bookie, almost losing heart. The hour for the big race was approaching, and the excitement on each side increasing, but Mickey did not even for once look towards the course. He glided about like an eel amongst the multitude, despair written on his face. If Sam Elsworth's impersonator did not show himself now all was lost. But what immense figure was that before him? And that hat, and the nose? Why, 'twas Sam all over — 'twas Sam himself.

       Half-an-hour later Avonmore came in a winner, a Cardiff club steward received the following telegram:— "Sam Elsworth bolted with all the stakes on the big race. The crowd furious; will kill him to a certainty if they catch him."

       The steward knew that Sam was at home ill, and at once rushed to his house. The prostrate bookie read over the telegram in amazement and indignation.

       "My hat, my hat," he exclaimed at last, "I see it all now. I'm ruined and disgraced for ever."

       But half-an-hour later still another telegram arrived. It was worded as follows:—

       "Welsher proved not to be Sam Elsworth but fellow who impersonated him. Has been arrested through the instrumentality of young Morgan. Wonderful boy."

       Yes, it was true. Mickey just managed to keep the runaway in sight, after he had discarded Sam Elsworth's hat and nose, and, just as he was jumping into a cab, had him arrested. Sam has recovered his "relics of ould dacency," and is once more a happy man.

No. 11. — THE AVERY FORGERY CASE.

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       The greatest crime William Avery had ever committed was to fall in love with his employer's daughter, but it may be said in extenuation that she fell in love with him first. For a long time he could not believe it — it seemed so improbable. He never considered himself to be extra good-looking, and he knew himself to be poor, whilst she was regarded on all hands as a beauty, and would be, on her seniority, entitled to an income of £1,000 a year. No wonder, then, that William Avery could not for a long time believe that the shy love glances cast in his direction by the charming Elsie Hyland could be taken seriously. He first thought she was making fun of him, afterwards that she was a flirt — a kind of Clara Vere de Vere, who wanted to win renown at his expense. Like the yeoman in Tennyson's poem, he saw the snare, and he tried to retire.

       But Mister Willie was tender-hearted, though he had never been in love in his life. He could not help speculating as to the possibility of Elsie Hyland having a serious regard for him. If the truth were known, from the first day he caught sight of her she had been his ideal woman, though he had never looked upon her in the light of a possible sweetheart. He knew very well that Mr. Hyland respected him, but he also knew that the old gentleman was ambitious, and thought that, instead of looking downward in the social scale, his only daughter ought to aspire towards playing a part in those higher circles to which he himself had so far been only partly admitted. Mr. Hyland was a shipowner and colliery proprietor, with an income of various thousands a year. He was also something of a politician, and looked forward to the day when he might be called upon to represent some constituency in Parliament. He had, to some extent, taken young Avery into his confidence, as, indeed, he was bound to do considering the position the latter occupied towards himself. Avery, in fact, was his private secretary, as well as foreign corresponding clerk for his firm. It was only in the natural course of things that the young fellow should be now and again invited to his employer's house, where, indeed, for a time, all the correspondence connected with his political affairs was transacted.

       Willie Avery knew several foreign languages, and had a considerable mastery over literary English. Edward Hyland did not even know his native language sufficiently well to be able to draft even a telling election address. This was not known to the public, amongst whom. indeed, Mr. Hyland had a considerable reputation for terseness of style and telling arguments. Only three people knew that the speeches he delivered in public, and the letters he wrote to the newspapers, found their origin in the brain of Willie Avery. These were Willie Avery himself, Mr. Hyland, and his daughter Elsie Hyland. Mr. Norman Hyland, the son, who was supposed to be studying for the Bar in London, had never been admitted into his fathers confidence. Their natures were antagonistic. The younger man laughed at his father's aspirations and "fads" as he called them. He could never be brought to see the possibility of living in a place like Cardiff whilst the world contained such paradises as London, Paris, and Monte Carlo. To his friends he confided the fact that the governor was a dashed clever old boy, but weak in his knowledge of the world, and faddy on many subjects. Willie Avery little knew that it was Mr. Hyland himself who was responsible for the first interest the pretty Elsie took in him. Long before Avery paid his first visit to Mr. Hyland's house, the latter had expressed on many occasions his high opinion of his corresponding clerk.

       "My dear," he used to say, "what a blessing it would be to me if Norman were like young Avery. That's a fine young fellow for you — so clever and so modest. I only pay him a hundred a year, but I will soon do better for him."

       "Why do you never invite him to the house. papa?"

       "Well my dear, it would, perhaps, make the other clerks jealous. But, after all, I will think of your suggestion. We could talk more freely over a bottle of wine than in my office in town, and it is a real treat to hear Avery talk. I don't mind telling you, my dear, that he has assisted me considerably in many of my speeches."

       So Avery was invited, and after that the political business was always transacted at the house. Miss Hyland was from the very first kind and courteous to her father's employe, and. as has been said, soon began to take more than ordinary interest in him. If anyone had asked her at first if she was in lore with the young man, she would be astonished at the question, though ingenuously enough she had for long bestowed such glances on him as a less vain man would have at once interpreted as a confession of the tender passion. But Willie Avery was not vain, and was more distressed by these glances than anything else. When finally Elsie Hyland found out beyond all doubt that she was in love she showed it less and Avery began to doubt if he had not been mistaken in his former impressions.

       The occasion on which Elsie Hyland found out the state of her heart was this. Her brother came down from London, bringing with him a companion who was in everything a man after his own heart. This young gentleman, Harry Altrincham by name, was the son of a Northern baronet, whose title only dated back some fifty years. He was not heir to the title, having an elder brother; but Mr. Hyland, senior, considered that even the brother or son of a baronet was a desirable family connection, and once hinted to his daughter that he should like to see her married (when she did marry) to some member of a titled family. As if to give emphasis to this expression of opinion, Harry Altrincham began to pay court to the young lady, if not to make open love, and when she contrasted his demeanour and bearing with that of her father's clerk: saw the refined tastes of the one and the innate coarseness of the other, it began to dawn upon her that she was in love with Willie Avery. Then came the question, If she had to elect between the two, on whom would her choice fall? She could have no hesitation in answering; and, further, she became convinced that if she had all the world to select from she would still fix on young Avery. The discovery did not exactly give her pleasure. She knew, in the first place that Avery had never bestowed any matrimonial thoughts on herself, and she was equally aware of what her father's ambitions were in regard to her. Though she avoided the attentions of Harry Altrincham, she henceforward was mo>-e careful in her intercourse with Avery. At the urgent wish of his friend, Norman Hyland prolonged his stay in Cardiff, and the and was that the scion of the house of Altrincham proposed to Mr. Hyland for his daughter's hand.

       "Have you asked Elsie's own consent, my boy?"

       "No, sir. I thought it the correct thing to speak to you first."

       "Well, as far as I am concerned, I give you leave to speak to her. The only thing I have, against you is your selection of my son for a friend. I hope your tastes are of a higher order than his." "Confound the old ass." said Altrincham to himself, "what does he knew about tastes?"

       But openly he said: —

       "Well, as regards tastes, sir, I think they are no better nor no worse than those of the ordinary man of my class. I've never killed any one nor stolen anything. I read the literature of the day; am fond of pictures, and prefer champagne to gin and bitters."

       "Well, well; go and speak to her. You have my good will."

       Half an hour afterwards his opportunity came.

       "Miss Hyland," he began, in a low voice, "will you listen to me for a moment? I've just been talking to your father on a very important subject, and I have his permission to speak to you. I love you with all my heart, and want you to be my wife. Don't answer me yet. I know you haven't known me long, though I seem to have known you all my life. Do you think you could love me a little? Do you think you could trust, your life to me?"

       "I am very thankful for the honour you do me, Mr. Altrincham, and will give you a plain answer. I don't love you the least little bit, and I don't want to trust my life to anyone."

       "But consider — take time, Miss Hyland; you may be able to love me after a while. Give me some hope."

       "I never could love you, and, as far as hope is concerned, I would answer you the same in twenty years."

       "Then there's someone else. By heavens! I thought so," he exclaimed, breaking into a passion.

       "How dare you ask such a question, sir? And if there was someone else, what concern is it of yours?"

       "Oh, no concern in life, but it might interest my friend Norman. I'll ask what his opinion is of Mr. William Avery, Esquire, champion quill driver and cad."

       Elsie blushed and flushed with indignation.

       "How dare you speak so of that gentleman, sir? Of the two I know very well which is the cad. Good evening."

       Mr. Altrincham was left to vent his feelings alone.

       "I am certain she loves that fellow," he exclaimed when he had cooled a little. "I could see by the way she looked at him. But let us see if Norman and myself cannot put a spoke in his wheel."

       Elsie went direct to her father. In spite of her perturbation she was cool enough to see the advisability of having the first word with him.

       "Did you authorise Mr. Altrincham to make love to me, father?"

       "Yes, my dear, I gave him permission, though I did not see the necessity of it. A man in his position might presume on making love to anybody without involving parental authority."

       "But he is a thorough mean fellow, papa. He accused me of being in love with Mr. Avery."

       "Dear me, how ridiculous! With Mr. Avery? Ha, ha! Surely, you must be mistaken, child! Mr. Avery, goodness me!"

       "I don't see anything to laugh at, papa. Mr. Avery is at least a gentleman, which is more than can be said for Harry Altrincham."

       "Yes, yes. Mr. Avery is a good fellow, and, I'm sure, will find a good wife some day in his own position. I've often thought what a fine thing it would be for him to marry one of these nice young ladies who work the typewriting machines."

       "I have nothing to say against these ladies, papa. Some of them may be good enough for Mr. Avery, but I am certain the worst of them is too good for Mr. Altrincham."

       "Dear me, child, how you do carry on! You surely are not in love with Avery"

       "I don't know; perhaps I am. I think he is the best man in the whole world."

       "Has he ever presumed to talk to you about such things as love?"

       "Never, father; I'm sure, I am the last person in the world he thinks about."

       "That's well, so far. Avery must not come here again. I cannot have my daughter, who might, and ought, to aspire to the highest in the land, make a fool of herself with one of my clerks."

       "One of your clerks! I have often heard you say you would wish to have a son like him."

       "Yes, yes; he would be all right as a son, but intolerable as a son-in-law."

       "Don't fear, papa," said poor Elsie, now breaking into sobs, "Mr. Avery will never think of me, and I daresay will soon marry one of the young ladies you have already alluded to."

       When she had left the room the perplexed father rose from his comfortable easy chair and began to walk hurriedly up and down.

       "I have been indiscreet, very indiscreet, in bringing that young fellow to my house. He must not come again. I daresay, as she declares, he is entirely innocent of any intention of making love to my daughter; but she loves him — of that there can be no doubt."

       Altrincham at once gave an account of his interview to Miss Hyland's brother.

       "She loves that fellow, I tell you. I saw it days ago, and I saw it ten times more plainly when I mentioned his name. By gad, that sister of yours, Hyland, is worth having. How she came to have a fellow like you for a brother is more than I can say. But, then, good girls have often had scamps for brothers."

       "D—n you, Altrincham, you're presuming too much. I wish to heaven I had never seen you."

       "If you had not where should you be now, Norman, my boy? Living at her Majesty's expense, eh?"

       "It is cowardly to bring up that old affair. You got me out of it, I admit, but you have led me into many others."

       "Led you! Fancy Norman Hyland requiring anyone to lead him where sin is to be committed. But we've talked enough. I insist on you're doing something to disgrace this fellow. I am determined to marry your sister, and until he is out of the way I see no chance. I insist, mind you."

       Norman Hyland's face was a picture of impotent fury at this moment. Hurriedly walking towards the door, he turned round to his friend and hissed: "By G—d, Altrincham, I could kill you."

       The latter laughed, but said no more.

       Whilst these scenes were being enacted at Mr. Hyland's house, William Avery was at his office finishing the correspondence for the day. He had received an invitation to dine with his employer that night, and was looking forward anxiously to meeting the young lady whose looks and glances had puzzled him so much. He was just preparing to go home to dress when a telegram arrived for him. It bore the name of his employer, and simply stated that he was not to visit the house that night. What could it mean? Had he been doing anything he ought not to have done? He thought over all his actions, and his conscience acquitted him. Still, it was very puzzling to receive such an intimation at the last moment. Had he ventured to look at Miss Hyland in any way calculated to rouse her suspicion as to the growing interest he felt in her feelings? He thought not. Well, the only thing open to him was to wait till the morrow for an explanation.

       But when the morrow came Mr. Hyland never vouched a word on the subject. He treated his secretary much the same as on other days, but the telegram was never mentioned; neither was any further invitation to the house forthcoming. Several days passed in this way, and Mr. Hyland was suddenly called out of town. Norman Hyland, with his esteemed friend, Mr. Altrincham, called at the office once or twice and spoke to the corresponding clerk. They made themselves particularly pleasant, much more so than when he had met them at the house. He began to think that young Hyland was not such a bad fellow after all, and that the first unfavourable impressions he had received of Altrincham were mistaken. Then one morning, as if by chance, Mr. Norman Hyland met him in the street.

       "Oh, good morning, Avery," he said; "glad to meet you. The governor has sent down this cheque; would you mind running to the bank and cashing it. They know you better there than me. It is for five hundred, you see; bring as much as possible in gold — all if you can."

       Avery obliged. but when he came back to where he left him he found Norman Hyland gone. He waited for a few minutes, and then went to the office; then he returned again to the appointed place, and still found no Norman Hyland. In the meantime the latter gentleman had followed Avery to the bank, saw him take the money away with him, and then, presenting a small cheque, asked the cashier if that was Avery he had seen go out.

       "Yes, he came to cash a cheque for £500 on your father's personal account — a rather large sum for Mr. Hyland to draw at once."

       "To whom was the cheque made payable?"

       "To 'self.'"

       "Was it endorsed by my father, then?"

       "Certainly; otherwise I should not have cashed it."

       "It is strange. I had a letter from my father this morning, who is up in the North, and he gave me a message for the people at the office, saying he had no time to write. Let me see the cheque."

       The cashier handed out the document.

       "I am certain that is not my father's signature. By the way, just look. There seems to me to be pencil marks underneath the writing, as if the signature had been traced over them."

       "You are quite right," returned the clerk, "it looks very mysterious; and now that I look at it closer the signature is much stiffer than Mr. Hyland is accustomed to write."

       A few minutes afterwards the bank cashier despatched the following telegram to Mr. Hyland: —

       "Avery just cashed cheque for five hundred on your personal account. Is it right? Signature looks odd."

       The reply came back in half an hour: —

       "No such cheque. Watch Avery. Coming back."

       But it did not suit Mr. Norman Hyland to wait his father's return. In the shortest possible space of time a warrant was issued, and William Avery was locked up in the Cardiff police cells on a charge of forgery.

       Miss Hyland heard the news without delay. She could have staked her life on the honesty of the man she loved and set about clearing him of the charge. Like everybody else, she had heard of Mickey Morgan, and without a moment's delay she called upon his employer requesting him to at once set about establishing Avery's innocence.

       When arrested he declared that the cheque had been given him by Mr. Norman Hyland, but that gentleman, who happened to be by at the time, indignantly denied the statement. All the money was found in Avery's possession, and, as soon as the public became aware of the matter through the newspapers, the concensus of opinion was that he was guilty. The same night in Avery's office the police found a blotting-pad containing several impressions of the imitation of Mr. Hyland's signature, and a piece of paper on which the name had been written several times. How Mickey Morgan brought the truth to light will be seen in our next.

No. 12. — THE AVERY TRIAL will appear on MONDAY NEXT.

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       So William Avery found himself the occupant of a police cell. At first he could scarcely realise the situation; it seemed all a terrible mistake. That he who would no more have dreamt of forging his employer's name than of affixing his signature to an Act of Parliament in place of that of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, should be locked up on such a charge seemed to him to he beyond all belief. Neither could he bring home to himself the terrible significance of Norman Hyland's denial of any knowledge of the incriminating cheque. He felt inclined to believe that he had really been mistaken as to the meaning of the words spoken to the police officer by that young gentleman. Surely the son of Mr. Hyland, and the brother of Elsie, could not be so utterly void of principle as to bring about the ruin of a man who had never done him an injury. The whole thing was inexplicable; out the hard fact remained, that he was a prisoner, and that the morning afterwards he would have to appear before the magistrates to answer to a charge of forgery. How should he meet it? He had not the least idea, and so far had not even thought of the necessity of employing a solicitor.

       But someone else was thinking and acting for him. When Elsie Hyland heard of the charge, she did not faint as many young ladies would have done. Instead of that she became indignant, and in very forcible terms told her brother and Altrincham that either of them were more likely to be guilty of the crime than William Avery — a man whom she felt sure was incapable even of harbouring a dishonourable thought. Both of the conspirators looked uneasy at this outburst, but it was Altrincham who spoke.

       "I am sorry, Miss Hyland, that you should entertain such a bad opinion of your brother and myself. We may net be angels, but we have not yet sunk to quill-driving, or forgery."

       "Mr. Altrincham. you may consider it smart, or something that becomes you, to allude to Mr. Avery as a quill-driver. Better men than you have been clerks, and my brother will, I am sure, not have forgotten that his own father started life as something less than a quill-driver. I repeat to you again that Mr. Avery is innocent, and, if a woman's help can do anything to clear his name. he shall have it ungrudgingly."

       "Elsie," broke out the brother, "I hope you are not going to make all of us look ridiculous by mixing yourself up in this case. What is Avery to you that you should meddle in his affairs? You may feel quite assured that the truth will come to light, and that justice will be done."

       "The truth has come to light. Mr. Avery has declared that you gave him the cheque, and I thoroughly believe him. He is incapable of telling a lie, whilst, as for you, my brother, you have always shown yourself an adept in the art."

       She did not want to hear the angry reply that was on his lips, but, with a dignified toss of the head, left the room. In half an hour afterwards she was driving down to Cardiff, with the view of employing a solicitor to visit the accused, and of consulting Mickey Morgan's principal as to the desirability of employing that young gentleman in making some investigations on behalf of Avery. The first visit was to the lawyer — a very smart young man who was making a name for himself amongst the criminals and suspected criminals of Cardiff. But it was not entirely for his sharpness that Miss Hyland selected him as her adviser on this occasion. He had the additional advantage of knowing Avery personally, and, as Miss Hyland expected, from the very first, expressed his belief in the innocence of the accused. Having given all her instructions to the lawyer, she next proceeded in quest of our hero, whom she found reading a newspaper in Mr. Norman's office. The latter gentleman was out at the time, but our young lady was, if anything, glad of this, for she preferred to treat with Mickey Morgan direct.

       "What can I do for you, Miss?" he asked politely.

       "You are the famous Mr. Morgan, I believe?"

       "My name is Mickey Morgan, but as for the fame, it is only your kindness which suggests it."

       "Oh, you really are famous. But, in any case, I want your assistance. A friend of mine has been arrested on a charge of forgery, and is to be brought before the magistrates in the morning. He is entirely innocent of the crime, and I want you to prove it."

       "I have heard of the case. It may not be easy to prove his innocence, miss. The evidence is strong against him. It seems plain that either he or Mr. Norman Hyland must be guilty — to clear one is to convict the other."

       "Dear me; I have not thought of that! And if Mr. Avery gets off, do you think they will arrest my brother?"

       "Oh, you are Miss Hyland, then. I'm afraid they would charge him with the forgery, miss, or, at any rate, with perjury."

       "Well, in any case, the innocent must not suffer I want you to try to find out the truth at once."

       "I will speak to Mr. Norman, and if he agrees we'll set to work at once. But can you tell me if your brother would benefit in any way by ruining Mr. Avery? Or is there anyone else who would benefit by bringing this charge home to him?"

       "I cannot see what possible interest my brother can have in the affair. But a friend of his, a Mr. Altrincham, who is at present staying with us, fancies he has some cause to dislike Mr. Avery, and may, possibly, be at the bottom of the plot — for a plot I am sure there is. You must pay particular attention to the doings of Mr. Altrincham."

       "Do you think, Miss Hyland, you could admit me into the house this evening and conceal me in some place where I might have a chance of hearing the conversation between your brother and him. I have often found eavesdropping to be the quickest means of solving a mystery."

       "But is it fair?"

       "All is fair in love and war and forgery cases. It would scarcely do to stand on ceremony with a man whom you yourself think capable of sending an innocent man to prison."

       "True, well, come to the side door this evening at six o clock, and I will admit you. In the meantime I shall look out for some place of concealment."

       As soon as Miss Hyland had left our hero, she went directly to the house of one of the leading magistrates and, after some persuasion, succeeded in extracting from him a card of admission to see the prisoner. A quarter of an hour later the two were face to face.

       "You here, Miss Hyland? This is, indeed, kind of you."

       "Not at all. You do not fancy, I hope, that I or any of your friends believe you guilty."

       "Your brother, at least, knows I am perfectly innocent; but he wants to ruin me. Why, God alone knows."

       "Don't be disheartened, Mr. Avery; we will clear you. I've put that wonderful boy Mickey Morgan to work on your behalf, and your lawyer friend, Mr. Cliffe, who also believes in you, will do everything in his power."

       "You have always been too good to me, Miss Hyland. Many a time I have wished it had been otherwise — indeed, you have been too kind to me."

       "How? Too kind; I cannot realise in what way. If you mean I have been fond of your society, you are quite right. But that was the purest selfishness. I liked to see you visit us above all others, until in the end I began to feel quite unhappy when you could not do so."

       This was palpably a declaration of love; but, under the circumstances, the most retiring spinster will forgive our young lady for having chosen such a time to show her feelings.

       "Ah, Miss Hyland, you do not know how sweet your words are to me, God knows I have thought so much about you lately that it has come into my mind more than once to run away to South Africa and never to see you again."

       "Why should you never see me again?"

       "Because, God help me! I love you, Miss Hyland, hopeless and presumptuous as my love is — but I love you."

       "Hopeless and presumptuous — why so? Have I not plainly told you, in spite of the fact that it is not leap year, what my feelings are towards you. Can I not also love?"

       "Heaven bless you, Elsie, for these words, I can face anything now; though, as for daring to ask your hand in marriage, I might with equal chance of obtaining my object propose to one of the Royal Family. I know Mr. Hyland well; and the very thought of such a union for you would drive him mad."

       "Never mind my father. He knows or guesses already that I love you; but in case I am sufficiently a daughter of the present day to be able to look upon love as being above everything else, and, permission or no permission. I will marry you if you ask me."

       "Should I get out of this scrape, darling, the asking will come pretty quickly. But if your brother persists in his declaration that he did not give me the cheque I am lost."

       "Don't despair. Trust in Mickey Morgan; he has never failed yet in bringing the truth to light, and I am quite sure he will not fail now. You have only to keep up your spirits, Willie dear, and he will do the rest. So good-bye."

       As she spoke she took his hand and held up her lips in such a way as no man on earth could have failed to take advantage. Both took their first love kiss, and both felt that they were united for ever.

       At the appointed hour that evening our hero was admitted into Mr. Hyland's house, and, unobserved by all except the fair Elsie herself, was admitted into the billiard-room, where Altrincham and Hyland were in the habit of spending a few hours each evening. What he heard there will be told later on.

       The following morning William Avery took up his position in the dock. The court was crowded in all parts, and much speculation was indulged in as to the guilt or innocence of the accused. The first witness called was Mr. Hyland himself, who had returned at a late hour the previous evening. The cheque was shown to him.

       "Is that your signature, sir?"

       "No, it is a good imitation, but it is not mine."

       "Does it bear any resemblance to the writing of the accused?"

       "No; as I have just stated, it is a good imitation of my own writing, but bears no resemblance as far as I can see to that of anybody else."

       "Tell the court," said Mr. Cliffe, "if you have ever had any reason to suspect Mr. Avery of dishonesty."

       "Never; quite the contrary. I always looked upon him as a thoroughly honest man."

       "And you were surprised when you heard of his forging your name."

       "Astonished. I could scarcely believe it; but now it seems clear enough that I was mistaken in my estimate of him."

       The next witness was the bank clerk who had cashed the cheque.

       "Do you remember the accused presenting this cheque to you? You might also give, as far as you are able, an account of any conversation you may have had with him."

       "I remember, of course, the whole circumstance. Why, it only occurred yesterday. Mr. Avery presented the cheque in the usual way, saying that he would like to receive as much as possible in gold."

       "Did you not think this remark peculiar?"

       "Not at all. Shipowners often receive larger amounts than that in gold. What struck me as peculiar was the fact that the cheque was drawn on Mr. Hyland's private account."

       "You paid the money, however, without hesitation?"

       "Certainly. I knew the accused to be Mr. Hyland's confidential clerk, and had no reason for doing otherwise."

       "Thank you."

       Detective-sergeant Jenkins was next called. In this case the witness was allowed to give his evidence in his own way.

       "Acting upon advice, I called at the office of Mr. Hyland, and, entering the room generally occupied by the prisoner, examined all the papers I could lay hands on. Amongst them I found this one (handing it up to the presiding magistrate) containing several imitations of Mr. Hyland's signature, and this piece of blotting-paper, which looks to me like the impression of the signature on the cheque itself."

       "Are you an expert in handwriting?" asked Mr. Cliffe.

       "Perhaps as expert as many who think themselves such."

       "How do you know these imitations are by the accused?"

       "I do not know. I simply state that I found the papers in his room."

       This concluded the evidence for the prosecution. For the defence. Mr. Cliffe, much to that young gentleman's annoyance, insisted on putting Mr. Norman Hyland in the witness-box, but he resolutely denied having seen Avery, or given him a cheque of any kind. The court shook its august head commiserately, and looked towards the prisoner.

       "My next witness," said Mr. Cliffe, "is a young gentleman known to you all. Mr. Michael Morgan, who will, I think, put a different complexion on the case.

       But Michael Morgan had not yet arrived, and, though his name was shouted and re-echoed through the corridors, he still failed to appear.

       "I am afraid I shall have to ask your worships for an adjournment. Young Morgan is my principal witness, and when your worships have heard his evidence you will be left no option but to acquit the accused."

       "Surely, Cliffe," said one of the magistrates, "you will not deny that there is sufficient evidence to justify us in sending the case to the assizes."

       "The evidence, as it stands, is certainly sufficient to warrant such a course; but I hope to be able to show you that it is tainted evidence, and unworthy of the credence of the court."

       At these words Norman Hyland turned as pale as death, and looked apprehensively towards his friend Altrincham, who was also present, and Dr. Simmons, who was one of the magistrates that day, noted the glance, and, turning to the others said:

       "By all means, we must hear young Morgan. He is a wonderful boy, and his testimony can be thoroughly relied on."

       At this very moment Mickey, accompanied by a middle-aged gentleman and a boy, who looked like a bootblack, entered the court. He went directly to Mr. Cliffe, and whispered hurriedly to him.

       "Acting on the advice of my young friend I will call two other witnesses before he himself gives evidence. Mr. Henlan."

       The middle-aged gentleman came forward.

       "Will you tell the court, sir, what you know about this case?"

       "Before saying anything, I wish to be allowed to look at the cheque."

       This was handed to him. He scrutinised it for a moment, and then began.

       "I am a chemical analyst, but for many years was employed in two of the principal ink manufactories in this country. Half-an-hour ago young Morgan came to me with two samples of ink, that used in Mr. Hyland's office, and the other that isin use in his house. He asked me if I could distinguish between the two inks when committed to paper, and I answered him that I could. I have now seen the cheque, and can positively swear that the signature was not written by the office ink, whilst to the best of my belief it was written by the other."

       Mr. Henlan spoke very emphatically, and his statement created a sensation in court. He was cross-examined, and even his ability to distinguish between the two inks put to the test by one of the magistrates, but nothing could shake his evidence.

       The next witness was Martin Crawley, the little shoeblack before alluded to.

       "Look at the prisoner," said Mr. Cliffe, "do you recognise him?"

       "Well, sir, I have known him by sight for a long time, and often cleaned his boots."

       "Did you see him in —– street yesterday morning?"

       "Yes, sir."

       "Did you see him meet anyone, and, if so, whom?"

       "I saw him meet that gentleman there, sir," pointing to Norman Hyland, "who gave him a paper of some kind."

       "Where were you at the time?"

       "Looking out of the window of an empty house close at hand where I sometimes leave my brushes and things."

       "You are positive?"

       "Very positive, sir. I could not make a mistake. I had also seen the other gentleman before."

       The magistrates looked at each other anxiously, but said nothing. Then Mickey Morgan was called.

       "I will let on young detective tell his story in his own way," said Mr. Cliffe. "He will need very little help from me."

       "Last night, sir, I was admitted into Mr. Hyland's house, and concealed myself in the billiard-room. Whilst there Mr. Norman Hyland and another gentleman, whom I see in court, came in. They began to play, but before the end of the game started disputing."

       At this point Mr. Altrincham approached his friend, and whispered, "You must stop the case; acknowledge your connection with the cheque, or all will come cut. D—– that young brat of a Morgan."

       With flushed face and faltering steps Norman Hyland approached the witness-box.

       "Your worships," said he, "there is no need to go further with the case. I was in a strange delusion as regards the cheque; I have had considerable mental worry lately, and had for gotten my meeting with Avery. I gave him the cheque, and he is innocent."

       There was an outcry in the court, and several hisses were heard, but a little of this kind of demonstration went a long way with Norman Hyland and his friend, so the two made a hurried exit from the court. Poor old Mr. Hyland looked thunderstruck, whilst Elsie, who was also present, was struggling between joy and grief. The magistrates instantly acquitted the prisoner "without a stain on his character," and complimented Mickey Morgan on the evidence he had brought together. Every one of them, of course, realised that he would have made some very compromising statement as regards young Hyland, had the case not been stopped, but they had pity on the father, and were pleased that the matter had not gone any further. As soon as Willie Avery quitted the dock he went directly to our hero and effusively thanked him for his services.

       "You must thank the young lady, sir; 'tis to her the credit is due.

       The young lady was waiting to be thanked, and Mr. Hyland himself, shamed and humiliated as he was, did not quit the court till he was able to take Avery by the hand and ask his forgiveness.

       The three drove together to Mr. Hyland's house, and after dinner the old gentleman consented to an engagement between his daughter and his secretary. It was the only adequate way, he said, he could compensate him for the indignity he had suffered. One of the most honoured guests at the wedding, which took place soon after, was Mickey Morgan.

No. 13. — THE MURDER IN THE RHONDDA.

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       Barry Erland was an actor, whose capacity for practical joking was considered much greater than his talent as an exponent of the art he professed. Indeed, it may be doubted if he would have continued on the stage at all, had it not been for the fact that it afforded him unending opportunities of indulging in his favourite pastime. No one escaped him — neither manager, nor leading lady, nor lightman. His landladies, though they liked him, were, by his pranks, converted into Christian martyrs, whilst amongst the actors of his acquaintance there were not above half a dozen who cared to submit to the ordeal of sharing apartments with him. One of these latter was Evan Harris, who was also something of a practical joker, and a man after Erland's own heart. The two had never been known to quarrel, a fact that was, doubtless owing to the understanding that neither should play practical jokes on the other. But Erland's joking propensities received a sudden check. Once when going home to his lodgings one night, after playing at a theatre in the Rhondda, in company with his comrade Evan Harris, his attention was attracted to a small cottage, outside the door of which the words "Police-station" were visible in the gas-light.

       "What an imposing edifice to represent the dignity of the law," said Erland. "I have a good mind to give the worthy bobby inside a shock."

       Erland, it may be mentioned, was a big athletic fellow, who before taking to the footlights had many times distinguished himself at athletic sports and gymnasiums. Indeed, he often owed his immunity from prosecution on various occasions to his quickness of foot, which enabled him to outstrip both the victims of his jokes and the representatives of the law.

       On the night in question he dragged in Harris to the policeman's cottage, and told the officer in charge that he had come to give himself up for murder. His tones were melodramatic and lugubrious to the extreme, and created a profound impression on the innocent policeman.

       "I have come to give myself up to the law — that law which I have offended — and which is so worthily represented by yourself, officer. Oh, heavens!" he exclaimed, "when will man learn to be master of himself; when will this continual shedding of human blood end: when will the demon of jealousy cease to dominate men's minds; when will it come home to us that nothing — absolutely nothing — can justify the taking of a human life; when —–"

       But at this point the policeman interrupted him with the prosaic declaration that "anything he now stated would be taken down against him in evidence."

       "Evidence! What do I care about evidence? Am I not here to condemn myself; to deliver my neck to the hangman? What are you talking about, officer? Have you ever killed a man — have you ever dyed your hands in the blood of your fellow-creature?"

       The officer denied the soft impeachment, and asked him to descend to particulars.

       "Half an hour ago," he continued, "I was an innocent man, as innocent and free from guile as a Rhondda policeman; but now, oh immortal shades of Brutus and Julius Cæsar and Hamlet's uncle look down or up (as the case may be) on the plight of your unhappy brother and give him the strength to bear with fortitude the agony and remorse of his few remaining weeks of life!"

       "All this is Greek to me," said the poor policeman; "will you please tell me in plain English what you have done?"

       "In plain, classic, Shakespearian English, I have for ever put it beyond the power of a fellow mortal to shuffle off this mortal coil on his own account. For who, being dead, I ask you, could so shuffle off this mortal coil? I have shuffled it off for him; and now confess the fact before you, most grave and reverend seignior, most dignified representative of Victoria Regina Britanicus, in this land of variegated countenances, in this amphibious valley of ancient Gwalia, the land of the Eisteddfod and Sunday Closing, the land of bright song and muddy beer, the land of sonorous 'r's' and mysterious double 'l's,' the land of bogus clubs and genuine shebeens, the land of a hundred religions and one sauce, the land of the cromlech and the equally mysterious 'faggot,' the land of 'Morien' and 'Mabon,' and a thousand other contradictions, the land of —–"

       But here the policeman again lost patience, and began to regard the actor as a genuine madman. However, he determined to humour him a little further, and said:

       "Will you try to speak plain English and tell me at once what you have to say?"

       "Shall I tell you in Welsh, officer?"

       "Yes, better in Welsh, if you can speak it."

       "Rhowch glased o gwrw — no, that's something about beer. My crime has driven the sainted Welsh language completely from my memory. But, by-the-bye, could you give me a glass of beer? I am earning it well; this case will bring you promotion and eternal fame. If you wish I will go outside, and after a terrible struggle you can succeed in taking me. 'Twill be more to your credit than arresting me thus in cold blood; Hal, an' thou lovest me, bring that glass of beer."

       "I have no beer, and it seems to me you have already had more than enough of that article."

       "Enough of Bass! I swear, by the blood-stained toga of the immortal Roman Emperor, who fell somewhere in the neighbourhood of Pompey's Pillar, that in the matter of beer my tastes are chastely classic, and that never (except on Sundays) do I pollute my lips by tasting other than the nectar of Trent or the adjacent waters. But I gather from the interesting remarks you have just made that you are not a patroniser of these waters. Such abstemiousness on your part, officer, amounts almost to weakness, and I wish from my soul I had gone with my talc of horror to an officer with a keener appreciation of the good things of this world."

       "I wish to heaven you had. And now will you go a way or shall I lock you up as a madman?"

       "Well, officer; I will perplex you no more. In the wood behind the Tare and Barley Inn you will find the dead body of a man whom I have stabbed to the heart with a knife hitherto devoted to the more noble work of sticking pigs. That's all — and, now, catch me if you can."

       With a bound he left the astonished policeman, and in a quarter of an hour afterwards had safely reached his lodgings. He found his comrade Harris there before him. The latter, being hungry for his supper, had not waited for the end of Erland's mock confessions.

       The two chatted for some time, and laughed heartily over the futile efforts of the policeman to comprehend the tale unfolded to him. But when morning came there was consternation where now light-hearted merriment reigned.

       Constable Williams, having allowed himself some time for reflection, began to fancy that after all there may have been some truth in the statement he had just listened to. Taking a lantern with him, he proceeded to the wood and was horrified to find the dead body of a man, pierced to the heart, exactly as the actor had described it. He blew his whistle vociferously, and in a short time a comrade joined him. He recounted the events of the evening and both set off at once in search of the supposed criminal. It was already midnight, there were no trains from the valley that night, and they knew that the culprit could not get very far before morning. They could find no trace of aim in the neighbourhood, and the superintendent despatched a man on a bicycle to Cardiff with a view of communicating a description of the culprit to the daily papers.

       Actors are not early risers, and it was almost midday before Erland and his fellow-lodger sat down to breakfast. The "Western Mail" was served up with the tea and toast, and proved a very indigestible article, indeed, to our practical joker. Scarcely had he opened it when his glance fell on the following headlines in large type: —

"HORRIBLE MURDER IN THE RHONDDA.
TRADESMAN STABBED.
CONFESSION AND ESCAPE OF THE
MURDERER.
FULL DETAILS."

       Then he read a few lines, and, with a horrified exclamation, started to his feet.

       "My God! I am undone, Harris: that silly confession last night will put my head in the halter. There has been a real murder committed in the place I stated, and stabbed exactly in the manner I described to the policeman. Was overmuch a horrible coincidence known!"

       Harris took the paper and glanced down the column devoted to an account of the crime. Amongst the items was a fairly accurate description of Erland.

       "That policeman is not such a fool after all," he remarked, "he has got you pretty well pictured here."

       "He has, by Jupiter, and how I am to show my face outside I don't know. If the people here see me adopt any disguise they will become suspicious, and yet without one it will be impossible to go through the streets."

       "The worst of it is," returned Harris, "that the policeman may also be able to recognise me, though I believe he scarcely saw me. There is one good thing, the papers, at any rate, say nothing of me. But you must really 'make-up' old man at once. I will run over to the theatre and bring you a beard and wig. The landlady will see nothing extraordinary in a little acting off the stage.

       For the rest of the day Erland was fidgety and nervous, starting at the footsteps on the pavement and the knock at the door. To his excited fancy every hawker was a policeman in disguise, and every innocent, passer-by a detective. Night came, and he had to make his way to the theatre. He adopted his friend's suggestion and passed through the streets in the guise of an old man, with grey beard and halting steps. He reached the theatre in safety, but his acting that night neither pleased his audience nor himself. The manager, too, was dissatisfied, and asked him bluntly what was the matter with him.

       "I will, probably, tell you some day; but just now I must confess that I cannot act. Indeed, were it not that we go North next week I should ask you to put an end to my engagement. I shall be right as soon as we leave this cursed neighbourhood — but not before."

       The manager shook his head, but did not pursue the subject further.

       He assumed the same disguise in returning to his lodgings, but gave a very wide berth to the policeman's cottage.

       The evening papers gave more particulars about the murder, including a history of the murdered man himself, which showed that he had not long been a resident in the Valley, having but recently established himself as a grocer in the neighbourhood. No one knew anything about him, beyond the fact that his name was Henry; he had previously lived in Cardiff, and was quiet and retiring in his ways. He had but recently got married, his wife being the daughter of a Pontypridd butcher.

       The police continued their search the whole of the day, but could find no trace of the supposed murderer. At night, his duties for the day being over, Constable Williams strayed into the theatre. The play was "The Grip of Iron," the part of "Jagon" being played on this occasion by Erland. Scarcely had he opened his mouth when a thrill passed through the policeman.

       "By G—d," he muttered, under his breath, "that is the man."

       Hastily quitting the building, he sought an inspector, and the two proceeded to the stage-door. They aad decided to arrest him at once, even though the result should be to put an end to the performance. When Erland was confronted with the two officers his courage rose, and ail the nervousness of the last two days left him.

       "I know what you want," he said, "you think I am guilty of this murder, and with some reason. But, as God is my judge, when I made that foolish confession two nights ago, I had no more idea that a man had been murdered than the child unborn. I can, indeed, prove a clear alibi, but, at the same time, I recognise your right to arrest me, and will submit."

       "Come along, then," said the inspector.

       "I would ask a favour tor my manager (not for myself), which is that you allow me to go through with my part for to-night. Otherwise, I am afraid the play must be stopped."

       "That is impossible. You must come with us now."

       The manager, who then came upon the scene, stormed at the officers as only theatrical managers know how; but all to no use. That night was passed by Harry Erland in a police-cell.

       Now, curiously enough, Mickey Morgan happened to be in the theatre that night, and, catching sight of the inspector in the wings, went round to speak to him. He had one or two questions to ask him in connection with a minor case he was then investigating. He heard Erland's declaration of innocence, and. being impressed with the sincerity of his tones, reasonably enough, came to the conclusion that the actor was innocent. Our hero had very keen instincts, which was, indeed, partly the reason why he had so far attained such remarkable success in the cases put into his charge. When Erland was changing his clothes in the dressing-room he went to him and offered his services.

       "My name is Mickey Morgan, sir; I am known, about here as a kind of detective, and will be glad to help you if I can. I believe you are innocent."

       "Thank you, my boy; I am innocent, and, if you want to help me, find the real murderer."

       "All right, sir; I'll do my best."

       By the first morning's light Mickey Morgan was at the scene of the murder. Half-an-hour's close examination convinced him the unknown assassin was a woman. Then he visited the wife of the murdered man; after that her father's house at Pontypridd, and, by the time the court opened, was ready with his defence.

       Constable Williams gave, for him, a clear account of the confession made by the accused, remarking, at the same time, that he had considered him a mere madman. The prosecution did not tender any more evidence, but asked for a remand.

       Erland's solicitor, however, insisted on putting Harris into the box to prove an alibi. The latter swore positively that the accused had been in his company the whole evening. This testimony neither impressed the magistrates nor the public, all regarding it as a good-natured attempt to screen his friend from the consequences of his crime. The magistrates were about to adjourn the case when Mickey Morgan, who had had no time to consult with Erland's solicitor, came forward and tendered evidence. He was already known to some of the magistrates, and one of them exclaimed heartily:

       "Come on, Mr. Morgan; let's see you prove the prisoner's guilt."

       "I shall prove his innocence, sir."

       This caused some sensation in court, and police and magistrates looked at our hero curiously.

       "To begin," said Mickey, "I heard the prisoner declare his innocence last night, and I believed him, I went to the scene of the murder this morning, and found, in addition, to the footmarks of the accused, those of a woman, but no mark whatever that could correspond with any boots a big man like the prisoner might wear. Then, on the protruding branch of a holly tree, I found this piece of lace, torn, I should say, from a woman's hat, for it was about five feet from the ground; then, looking amongst some bracken, I found this knife, which has the name of Josiah Evans, upon the handle. Mr. Evans is a butcher in Pontypridd, and the father-in-law of the murdered man. Mr. Evans himself and Mrs. Evans will tell you that on the night of the murder a girl wearing a hat trimmed with such lace as this I have shown you entered his shop, and, after making some small purchase, inquired the address of his son-in-law. When she had gone they missed one of the knives, the very knife I hold in my hand."

       When Mickey concluded, there was applause in court. Mr. and Mrs. Evans confirmed the evidence as far as it concerned themselves, and Barry Erland was released on formal bail. Who the real murderer was will appear in our next.

No. 14. — SAM HENRY'S LOVE AFFAIRS.

---

       Mickey Morgan, in impulsively taking up the case for Barry Erland, for the first time, acted in direct opposition to the canons laid down by his employer, Mr. Norman. But he had this excuse — the latter gentleman was away from home and could not be consulted, whilst he knew that his failing, if failing it was, leaned at an angle of 45 degrees to the side of virtue. Besides, nothing succeeds like success, and, however annoyed Mr. Norman might pretend to be at his taking up a case without superior instructions, he felt sure that in his heart he would rejoice in the part Mickey had played in clearing the actor from the consequences following his mock confession to the police-constable. Everyone was now convinced that Erland was innocent of the crime, and, as a result, the theatre was crowded every night. The manager was delighted, and, to show his gratitude to our hero, presented him with a very pretty gold watch on the last night of his stay. Erland would have liked to signify his gratitude in a similar way, but, alas! he was not the kind of man who can keep a balance at his bankers, and, besides, the salaries paid to fourth-class travelling artistes are not such as would leave much margin for investment in the Post Office Savings' Bank. Mickey, however, was more than content with the gold watch, and to Erland's great relief declared that if he offered him £100 he should not accept a single halfpenny.

       "I will take something from you, though; just give me that cigarette-holder as a memento."

       "With all the pleasure in life, my little man — were it made of jewels it should be yours."

       The police in their search for the supposed murderer had failed to make any investigations on the scene of the outrage, and had it not been for the prompt action taken by our hero would, in all probability, have allowed the mysterious girl time to have covered her tracks successfully. Now, however, their whole energies were aroused, and at their special request Mickey Morgan was allowed to continue his investigations in the case. But we will go back and give our readers something of the history of poor Sam Henry, whose untimely fate was so nearly putting an end to the artistic career of the great practical joker, Barry Erland.

       Sam was a modest young man of amorous propensities. He was terribly shy, and, though he had fallen in love over and over again, he never could summon up sufficient courage to impart the fact to the various objects of his transitory passion. Amongst the fair ones to whom his heart had fallen a victim was a certain Blanche Palazzo, half Maltese and half English, but who, having been born in Bute-road, Cardiff, regarded herself as a thorough Welsh girl. Now. Blanche had noticed the tender glances which Sam had long cast in her direction, and, knowing nothing of shyness herself, wondered why he never spoke to her. She wanted a sweetheart, and, Sam being a good-looking young fellow, she considered would do as well as another. Happening to meet him one rainy day, she allowed the wind to blow the umbrella from her hands. Sam chivalrously went in pursuit, and on restoring the article to her ventured on the poetic remark that it was terrible weather.

       "Oh, horrible!" exclaimed the young lady; "and now I'm afraid this umbrella is such a sight I dare not put it up again. What shall I do?"

       "I'll lend you mine," said Sam.

       "And what will you do yourself? Besides, I would look ridiculous going through the streets with a gentleman's umbrella. If you could accompany me to the door it would be so much better."

       That just what Sam would have liked to suggest himself, but he was too shy to say so.

       "All right, miss, I shall be glad to show you home."

       "Come along then."

       But the rain and wind began to increase, and they were obliged to take shelter in the door of a confectioner's shop.

       "Had we not better go in and have a cup of tea or something," timidly suggested Sam.

       "It would be better," asserted the young lady.

       They sat down at the same table, and Sam was in the seventh heaven.

       "What will you have, miss — tea, coffee, or cocoa?"

       "Oh, tea, by all means; and don't, please, call me miss — my name is Blanche. Do you know I have seen you many times?"

       "Oh, yes, Miss — Blanche; I have seen you often and wanted to speak to you, but dare not."

       "Dear me; why dare you not speak to me?"

       "Because you're so good-looking, and I'm such an awkward fellow."

       "Good-looking? Why do you think so?"

       "Can't you see; you've such grand black hair and eyes and a dark skin."

       "And do you admire these things? Why, I thought all the young fellows admired flaxen locks, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks."

       "Some do, but they are common; whilst you look different from anybody else."

       "Do I? I think you're very nice, and I must really call you by your Christian name. What is it?"

       "Sam, miss; Sam Henry, an ugly name like myself."

       "But you're not ugly, Sam; I think you're charming, and so is your name. Sam is so nice and short."

       "It is short. But Blanche is the loveliest name in the whole world. It means something in French, doesn't it — carte blanche?"

       "Yes — it means white in French; but to suit me it should mean black."

       "Do you live far from here, Blanche?"

       "Oh, not very far — why?"

       "Because I should like to see you often. Do you ever go to the theatre?"

       "No; I have no one to take me."

       "Would you come with me — can you come to-night?"

       "Yes; I should like to go to the theatre to-night."

       And so it was arranged, and Sam got embarked on his first serious love affair. For a long time he thought Blanche was an angel, and felt the happiest of mortals. But, unfortunately, Samuel was fickle, and could not help letting his love stray in the direction of a fair-haired beauty whom he met one night at the house of a relative. Then he began to look upon dark-skinned people as half niggers and no fit mates for Saxon or Norman or Dane or Celt. Once or twice he failed to keep tryst with the once adored Blanche, and, it was then that the young lady showed the metal she was made of. She flew into such passions as made poor Sam tremble; and then, when she had thoroughly cowed him, became loving and kind, and spoke of the day when they would be one — never to part again. In the present state of his feelings this did not look at all an inviting prospect for Sam, and he inwardly prayed that such a day might never arrive.

       For a time Sam became more attentive, but, as the superior attractions of the fair-haired girl dawned upon him more and more, he found his connection with Blanche become more irksome. One day he conceived the not very ingenious idea of writing her a letter to say he had been suddenly called out of town to visit a sick relative, and he did not know how soon he should be able to return. Blanche became suspicious. She had known for a long time that his affection for her had cooled; but she was determined to marry him all the same. Sam was employed in the office of a wholesale grocer, and was generally very open in his movements. But even his companions noticed that in the days after the despatch of his letter he invariably went out by the back door. His caution was well founded. Blanche had several times placed herself in sight of the front door, scrutinising everyone who entered and left. She caught no sight of Sam, however, and was beginning to believe that he had really left the town, when one evening she saw him enter the Theatre Royal in company with another girl. Blanche had all the Southern quickness of thought, and without a moment's hesitation she followed them in. Sam, to his misfortune, did not notice her, and she was able to take a seat just behind them. She observed every look and every action of the two. She heard her faithless lover whisper to his companion the very compromising word "darling"; she saw the two hands slyly seek each other, and then lost all control.

       "Liar and traitor," she whimpered into Sam's ear, "you shall both suffer tor this."

       Sam was thunderstruck; he turned as pale as a ghost, and trembled all over. The fair-haired girl looked round, and met the piercing, vindictive eyes of Sam's discarded sweetheart. None of the three saw much oi the rest of the play, though they each of them stuck to their places in spite of acts and intervals. When at length the curtain had finally fallen. Blanche rose and leisurely went towards the dour. Sam did not seem in any hurry to follow. But the gas man began to put out the lights, and very reluctantly he had to approach the door. Blanche Palazzo was there. Thrusting out her hand in front of the fair-haired girl, she cried: —

       "Look at that ring; he gave it to me a month ago."

       Sam hailed a cab, and thus the two escaped. Ethel, the fair-haired one, was frightened at the scene, and asked Sam for an explanation. He was too perturbed to be able to manufacture a plausible lie, and ended by telling the truth. Ethel was indignant, and vowed she would never speak to him again. And she never did. In vain unhappy Sam called at her house; in vain he wrote reams of love and poetry — she refused to see him, and returned his letters unopened.

       In the meantime, Blanche threatened him with an action for breach of promise, and he made up his mind to leave the town. He had an old aunt living up in the Rhondda, and, letting the world believe that he was going abroad, he flew for refuge to her house. He remained there undisturbed for some months, and then, on the advice of his worthy relative, who supplied the money, he started business on his own account. Our readers who by this time know Sam's character will not be surprised to hear that he lost no time in falling in love once more. This time the object of his affections was Miss Evans, of Pontypridd, who was also fair-haired, and in many ways the opposite of the discarded Blanche. He still lived in fear and trembling lest the latter should find out his hiding-place, and should come between him and his new love. To prevent the latter catastrophe he hurried on the marriage, and it was only when he had left the church after the final words had been spoken that he felt certain the Maltese girl would not insist on marrying him.

       But that energetic young lady was by no means idle. She employed all the resources at her command to trace the errant swain, and only succeeded when it was too late to attain anything beyond revenge. Even then she did not find out Sam's abode, but was told that he had married the daughter of a butcher at Pontypridd. Whether he himself lived in that town her informant could not say, but the chances were in favour of such a supposition.

       Journeying then to the Rhondda one night she entered Mr. Evans's shop, and without difficulty obtained all the information she wanted. Whilst talking to Mrs. Evans her eyes rested on a sharp knife, and with a sudden impulse she seized the first opportunity of hiding it under her mantle. At the moment she had no definite intention of using it, but some expressions which Mrs. Evans let fall gave her the idea that Sam was revelling in unadulterated happiness, and she felt her own wrongs cry out for vengeance of some kind. Leaving the shop she took the tram to a certain point, which brought her within a mile of Sam's shop. The remainder of the distance she walked, her wrath increasing at every step, her desire for vengeance becoming stronger and stronger. When she came in sight of the shop, however, she stopped, and. making superhuman efforts, managed to assume a somewhat calm demeanour. She knew the hour for closing was at hand, so walked up and down, endeavouring to think of anything other than the matter that was consuming her soul; so that, finally, when she saw the door closed she was able to salute her quondam lover in fairly calm tones.

       "Good night, Mr. Henry; may I have the pleasure of a few moments' conversation with you?"

       Poor Mr. Henry felt very much like taking to his heels, but he knew that such a course would only serve to prolong his agony.

       "Certainly, miss; what can I do for you?"

       "Let's walk along this quiet path; I have something particular to say to you."

       Sam did not know how to refuse, so they walked along on the verge of the grove.

       "What have you got to say for yourself? Why did you desert me?"

       "You know very well; we were never suited to each other. Besides, what's the use of talking of it now? You know I'm married. I suppose."

       "Yes; I know you're married. Sam — God forgive you! It was me you should have married; I did so love you, Sam, and would have done so to the end of my days. I even love you now, and, in spite of everything, would go to the world's end with you. Let's go abroad, Sam; you know I cannot live without you."

       This renewed declaration of love was only part insincere. She really had grown to love him very ardently, and her jealousy had the effect of fanning her passion into a flame. Even now, if she could induce him to forget his married vows, she was prepared, as she said, to set all conventionality on one side, and to ally her lot with his. But Sam remained silent.

       "You know," she continued, "that no one in the world could love you as I do. What is the love of your inane, doll-faced girl compared to mine?"

       "But you can see I love her, and I do not love you."

       "Don t you love me a little bit, Sam, after the many vows you swore to me and the kisses you gave me?"

       By this time they had wandered into the wood, probably by design on her part, for Sam took very little notice of where they were going.

       "No, I don't love you in the least," he said. "You were never the kind of girl for me. I love my own little wife."

       Sam was getting courage just at the time when it would have been the better policy to temporise.

       "You love your own little wife, and you don't love me! Give me one last kiss, Sam."

       "No, I cannot; and I must go home at once."

       "Yes, go home to hell, you miserable, lying hound — go home," she hissed, as she drove the knife into poor Sam's heart.

       Then she rushed madly through the wood, only stopping when her hat got entangled in the projecting branch of a tree, where the incriminating bit of lace was found by Mickey Morgan. The knife she had previously thrown into a heap of bracken.

       This, then, was the real history of the murder of poor Sam Henry, whose untimely fate everyone lamented, and none more so than the rollicking actor who had never seen him, but who was so near coming to grief on his account.

       Mickey Morgan took very little interest in tracing the girl. As long as his own particular client, Barry Erland, got out of the meshes of the law he did not mind. Nevertheless, for the sake of Mr. Norman he was obliged to show some activity in the matter, and it was he who found out that Blanche Pelazzo was the real murderer. He also learned that she had been cruelly jilted, and he almost forgave her the crime. At any rate, he kept to himself the information he acquired as to the whereabouts of the murderess. She had shipped to her father's native country, and afterwards found there a more congenial companion than poor Sam Henry could ever have been. Mickey Morgan's final comment en the case was this: —

       "According to law she ought to be hanged, but if other girls had the same spirit there would be fewer jilts in the world."

No. 15. — SERGEANT JENKINS'S DOUBLE.

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       If in the ordinary course of things the policeman's lot is not a happy one, how miserable must that of Sergeant Jenkins have been, when, instead of promotion to the rank of inspector, he saw himself through no fault of his own in imminent danger of being expelled from the force. Things had got so bad in his regard; he was so surrounded by suspicion that the chief-constable had almost made up his mind, if not to cashier him altogether, at any rate to take away his stripes. And the worst of it was that, though knowing himself to be innocent, he could not blame the chief-constable should he indeed, carry out his threat. For the truth was, there were two Sergeant Jenkinses in Cardiff, one an open, painstaking officer, liked by superiors and inferiors, and not by any means detested by the public; and another mysterious Sergeant Jenkins, who raided shebeens, drank half the liquor he could lay hands on, and then good-naturedly allowed the law-breakers to buy his silence by accepting substantial bribes. The real Sergeant Jenkins once summoned a Mrs. Sexton for unlawfully selling beer on Sundays, and that irate lady, whilst pleading guilty, declared in open court that a fortnight before the very man who had now summoned her had passed more than two hours in her house, drank a whole bottle of whisky, and then expected two guineas as the price of his silence.

       "I did not mind the two guineas, your worship," declared the irate lady, "nor the bottle of whisky; but what I'm hurt about is the base ingratitude he has now shown in prosecuting me, I could have forgiven him had there been another policeman with him when he came to my house yesterday. He would then be obliged, in a way, to prosecute; but no, he came alone, and when I offered him some whisky you should see the look of holy horror on his face. The vile hypocrite; as if he had not a fortnight before drunk a whole bottle at a sitting."

       "I declare, your worships, that every word this woman says is a lie. I have not tasted whisky for years, and, certainly, have never taken as much as a glass of water in her house."

       "Did ever anyone hear the like? Do you hear that, Catherine?" said she, turning to her daughter, who was in court.

       "Yes, mother, I hear him; and he's lying. It was the best whisky, too; nothing less would please him."

       The poor sergeant turned pale with excitement and alarm, and looked appealingly towards the magistrates. The chairman, who took pity on him, turned to Mrs. Sexton, and said:

       "We don't believe one word of what you say, woman. It is very poor revenge to try to ruin a man who, I understand, has a large family."

       "You don't know me, sir, if you think I come here to perjure myself. I may have sold beer without a licence, but I know what an oath is, and not for all the beer in Burton would I call God to witness to the truth of a lie, either in this court or elsewhere."

       The woman spoke so warmly and sincerely that the magistrates looked perplexed, and Sergeant Jenkins dumbfounded.

       "And do you positively swear, Mrs. Sexton, that Sergeant Jenkins drank whisky in your house, and actually accepted a bribe of two guineas from you?"

       "I do swear it, sir; and so could my daughter, and, perhaps, one or two more."

       "I saw him drink the whisky, sir," said a man standing up in the body of the court.

       "This is most serious and inexplicable," said the chairman. "It is, however, a question for the chief-constable and the watch committee. In the meantime, Mrs. Sexton, you are lined £10 and costs, or, in default, a month's imprisonment."

       "Ten pounds, and two pounds gone already to the sergeant," pondered Mrs. Sexton audibly. "it is more than ever I earned at the business."

       Sergeant Jenkins was able to convince the chief-constable that on the Sunday in question he could not possibly have been in Mrs. Sexton's house, so he was let off with a caution. But the following week brought a still more serious case. On the plea of searching for some stolen property Sergeant Jenkins entered a house in Tudor-street, and carried away with him a gold watch and several articles of jewellery. When the indignant owner went to the police station to claim them, she was met with the astounding assertion that no one there knew anything about them. Confronted with Sergeant Jenkins she declared emphatically that he was the man who had taken her property.

       "My God! My God!" exclaimed poor Jenkins; "all this will drive me mad."

       The public had evidently entered into a conspiracy to ruin him. But that was not the worst, for a few days after two constables who ought to have been on duty in Bute-road at a time when a serious row took place between some sailors explained their absence from the scene of the action by declaring that Sergeant Jenkins had sent them both in other directions. The poor sergeant protected that he had done nothing of the kind, but the constables were ready to swear all kinds of oaths, and make any number of affidavits on the subject.

       "If this goes on," said Jenkins, to his superintendent, "I shall be in Bridgend in a month."

       "It really behoves you, Jenkins, to prove your innocence of these charges, otherwise I'm afraid you will have to resign. Neither the chief-constable nor the watch committee can set public opinion at defiance."

       His name was now becoming a bye-word in the whole town. The rhymesters even begin to make verses in his honour, and the newslads to sing them. One of the stanzas he heard chanted in stentorian tones through the door of a public-house in Bute-street, and it nearly drove him crazy. It ran something in this way:—

"One Sunday in Sexton's shebeen. Brave Jenkins, who felt very frisky, Sat boozing from morning to e'en, And drank a whole bottle of whisky. Says he, 'I'm a knowing jackdaw, Who peeks all that fate puts before him, And don't care a d—– for the law, Whilst the lady shebeeners adore him. Ri fol de dol, ol de dol, ol," &c.

       "If I knew the man who wrote that," muttered the indignant sergeant to himself. "Id get him five years — and 'twould be much too little for the offence. If the law is to be brought into contempt in this way we might as well have Socialism and Anarchy at once."

       During the day he met one of the constables who had testified against him before the chief-constable.

       "Why the deuce, Lewis, did you tell that lie to the chief?"

       "It was no lie, sergeant, and you know it. Why you should try to make it out one is more than I can understand."

       "I tell you I gave you no such orders; I did not even see you that morning. But it is plain enough. If there is not a conspiracy to ruin me, there is some villain personating me up and down. But I'll find him out by —–. I'll find him out."

       "Do you know what you should do, sergeant? Let that little chap Mickey Morgan investigate the matter for you. He's as sharp as a needle, and as 'cute as a fox."

       "I believe I will. Thank you, Lewis, for the suggestion. I don't fancy, somehow, you would willingly ruin me; and yet you've gone d—n near it."

       In half an hour after Mr. Norman received a visit from the sergeant.

       "Ah! Sergeant Jenkins come to arrest me — eh? What have I been doing — selling whisky without a licence, giving wrong orders, or writing profane verses?" And Mr. Norman began to warble to the tune of "The Night Before Larry Was Stretched," the verses which had so lately roused the ire of the sergeant.

       "Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up," he exclaimed, rudely; "have these infernal verses gone all over the town?"

       "By this time I believe they have. Don't you think they are good? The author is a particular friend of mine —–"

       "One Sunday in Sexton's Shebeen"; and Mr. Norman, in spite of the vociferous protests of the sergeant, went through the song, which contained in all four stanzas, each more impudent than the other.

       "Well, now that you've finished your singing, will you please give me a moment's attention? Some one is personating me in this town, and I want you to put Mickey Morgan on his track. If a single other outrage be committed in my name my fate is sealed, and my family ruined. I can't pay much, but if the lad can only unravel this mystery for me you shall have half my pay for three months."

       "Really, sergeant, I am sorry I was so flippant just now. For the moment I did not realise the gravity of your position, but to atone for my want of thought I place Mickey Morgan at your disposal con amore free, gratis, for nothing; will that please you?"

       "Many thanks, Mr. Norman. I believe the lad can get me out of this mess; and whether he does or not you shall have my eternal gratitude. Can I speak to him?"

       "He will be in directly. You had better give him your own instructions. I fancy he knows something about your case himself, though he is inclined to think you guilty."

       "That's the worst of it — everyone seems to be of the same opinion. Even the chief-constable is now doubtful."

       Mickey Morgan soon came in, and after half an hour's conversation with the sergeant expressed his willingness to do all in his power to help him.

       "But do you know, sergeant, I believed you guilty, and what's more, I must tell you it was I who scribbled those verses you complained of. I am very sorry now that I know the truth, and if it were possible to withdraw them from circulation I would."

       "What! Have you got them printed?"

       "No, sergeant, but you know things circulate " without being printed. Look at all the songs and poems that were in the world long before printing was invented."

       "It is a great pity it ever was invented," asserted the sergeant, with emphasis.

       "But to come to the point," resumed Mickey. "We must lay down a plan of campaign. Now, if you will be guided by me sergeant, you will keep to your office for the whole of the next week; keep under the eye of the chief-constable so that, if anything else happens to be done in your name, he will know for a certainty, that you are innocent."

       "I agree with you, my lad, and I will ask the chief's permission to-day. He will, no doubt, see the wisdom of the course you suggest."

       "In the meantime, I shall have a hundred eyes for any false Sergeant Jenkins who may be about. You know that all the newsboys and shoeblacks in the town are my spies, and I can get information where the police would have no chance."

       "I believe you can. You have proved so often enough at any rate."

       The chief-constable willingly fell in with the sergeant's suggestion that he should be confined to barracks, as it were, for a week; and Mickey Morgan went amongst his old-time comrades, the newslads, instructing them to keep a sharp look-out for Sergeant Jenkins, and promising a reward of five shillings to the first one who brought him news of his presence in any neighbourhood. Five shillings seemed a whole fortune to these lads, and it may be taken for granted that they were very much on the alert during the following days. Mickey himself at all hours paraded the beat made sacred to the perplexed sergeant, but saw no sign of the mysterious double. Neither had any of the lads brought him any tidings.

       Still, he did not despair. He argued, logically enough, that if the object of the unknown was to ruin the sergeant he would not delay long before attempting another escapade similar to those which had gone before.

       Several days passed, however, and the sergeant chafed at his voluntary imprisonment. At that time he would almost have welcomed a murder done in his name as a Godsend. His patience, however, was not destined to be put to much further test, for that very evening the other Sergeant Jenkins entered the public baths, as if in pursuit of a criminal, entered one of the dressing-boxes, and carried away with him a valuable gold watch belonging to a gentleman who was well-known as an expert swimmer, and a regular frequenter of the baths. The attendant, seeing a man in the uniform of a sergeant, had no suspicions, and did not think of putting any obstacle in the way. But, short as the mock sergeant's stay had been inside the baths, there was yet time enough for one of Mickey Morgan's satellites to be able to bring that young gentleman on the scene in the nick of time. The "sergeant" came out of the baths with stately steps; turned to the left, and went up an entry, followed closely by our hero. He heard some rustling like the noise of a mackintosh, and in a very few minutes an entirely different figure emerged from the obscurity of the passage. The moustache was gone, so was the policeman's cap and uniform. The transformed policeman were a trilby hat and a long cloak which reached almost to the ground. He did not look in the least like a policeman, and bore no resemblance in the world to Sergeant Jenkins.

       "Well, by jingo," said Mickey to himself, "that is a smart man. Two minutes ago he was the dead spit of the poor sergeant; now he looks more like a sporting gent. 'Tis almost a pity to arrest so clever a man. However, it must he done; but I had better track him to his layer before reporting, as in this way it may be possible to recover some of the stolen property."

       The object of Mickey's meditations walked slowly in the direction of St. Mary-street, where he entered a public-house. Our hero, too, felt thirsty at the time, and, seeing the inscription, "Fine Devonshire Cider." on the window, decided that a pint of that beverage would be eminently serviceable to the then condition of his stomach. He took care to enter the same room with the thief, and was not slow in getting into a conversation.

       "Where can you find room for all that cider my little man," asked Sergeant Jenkins's double genially.

       "Oh, I'm never short of room for good stuff, sir; and cider agrees with me very well."

       "Come, you must let me pay; you seem altogether a very manly little chap, and really fit to sit at the same table with a gentleman."

       "Thank you, sir; I never allow anyone to pay for drinks for me. I don't like being under an obligation, and I hate paying for drinks for other people."

       "Quite a philosopher, upon my soul," said the thief, boisterously slapping himself on the knee.

       "Yes, I believe I am something of a philosopher — at least I have been often called so; and it is not for me to dispute what my elders say."

       "Why, man, Plato has come to life again in you. Until now I never believed in the transmigration of souls, but I can doubt no longer."

       While he was speaking our hero was writing a note in a pocket-book. Just then a newsboy came in. Quietly tearing out the leaf, Mickey handed it to the lad, with a wink, and began to renew his conversation with the philosophical thief. The note was for Sergeant Jenkins, and contained the following words:—

       "I have run your enemy to earth. Come at once with another man and arrest him."

       By this time the manager of the bath and the owner of the stolen watch had arrived at the police-station and lodged their complaint against Sergeant Jenkins.

       "I can solemnly assure you," said the superintendent, "that Sergeant Jenkins has not left these offices for days."

       He touched a bell, and the sergeant appeared.

       "That's the man," cried both, "he's got the watch."

       "Another outrage on my name!" exclaimed the now delighted sergeant; "thank God, I am cleared at last."

       Then the newsboy armed with Mickey Morgan's note.

       "By heavens! said the inspector, "that boy is a genius. He ought to get the Victoria Cross."

       The sergeant and superintendent broke in very rudely on the conversation of our two philosophers, postponing indefinitely the settlement of one or two interesting points about which they had been unable to agree.

       "That's him, sir," said Mickey, regardless of grammar.

       Both the officers seemed somewhat incredulous and perplexed.

       "Look under his cloak," said Mickey.

       The superintendent did so, revealing underneath a sergeant's uniform.

       "The devil take all the young philosophers in the world," said the now discomfited thief; "I believe you're Mickey Morgan."

       "That's my name, sir."

       The criminal was sent to penal servitude for five years, and Sergeant Jenkins was soon after promoted to the rank of inspector.

No. 16. — THE NEWPORT SMUGGLING CASE.

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       The Custom House officers at Newport were sorely puzzled. They knew that brandy and rum were being introduced into the town duty free, to the great injury of her Majesty's revenue and their own reputation. How it was done they had not the slightest idea; but that it was done was beyond all doubt, and, what's more, they had more than a suspicion as to who was the receiver. Yet, do what they would, they could find no evidence to convict him.

       Their suspicions were directed towards a public-house called the Three Tigers, kept by an old sea-dog, named James Mullingford, who had for years traversed the seas as captain of a sailing vessel, and, if he himself was to be believed, had more than once crossed the North Pole. He sneered at all modern explorers; they were babies in the trade. If he or his old mate, Sam Mirkins, cared to talk they could a tale unfold that would cause your Nansens and Pearys and other kittens to fly for refuge under a bed.

       "The North Pole! What do they know about the North Pole or any other pole? Why, look here. does it look reasonable that men who fill their ships with compressed tea and jams and essences of ants and blackbeetles are the characters to bear the hardships of the North Pole? Not likely. But, there; I dare not continue the subject. In my day we had no full-page illustrations of our 'mugs' in the weekly papers — not that we weren't better looking chaps than these long-shore sparrows, but we wouldn't have it. We were not the kind of men to spend £50 on a telegram announcing to a maudlin, sentimental world that one of our little toes had get frost-bitten, and that a drop from our nose got turned into an iceberg before it could reach the deck. We bore our hardships in silence — and we got there. Oh, yes, we got there; and that's what your Nansen will never do with his theories of currents and drifts. What did we do? We made currents of our own, and cut the drifts at defiance. Don't interrupt me; I can't stand it. Bring me a glass of brandy. Mary — that's a good girl. The North Pole! They might as well whistle a jig to make a milestone dance as fancy the present race of sailors can ever get within hailing distance of it."

       Whatever Captain Mullingford's reputation as a nautical man may have been, his reputation for selling good, genuine brandy at a moderate price was widespread. There was scarcely a doctor in the town who had not at one time or another tried the quality of the "Three Tiger" brandy, and, what's more, had prescribed it for their patients.

       But the fact remained, that the quantity of brandy entered as received in the book provided by the Inland Revenue for that purpose was wholly inadequate to meet the necessities of anything beyond an ordinary public-house trade. The Customs and Excise resorted to every means in their power to extract from the old captain the secret of his supply; but he was even more reticent on that subject than as to any definite particulars regarding his stay at the North Pole.

       "Where do I get my brandy from?" he shouted one day to a fellow-publican who had asa brother an Excise man; "I got it where it grew — on the little green bushes in foreign parts, and carried enough, hone with me in my waistcoat pockets to last me a lifetime. Will you try a drop of it? Very good. Mary, bring in some of that brandy I brought from Hendaya, just after the Battle of Waterloo. 'Tis well matured by this time, and I can vouch for its purity. I saw the very grapes it was distilled from. None of your stove-coloured currants nor dropsical hot-house articles, but real, black, luscious uvas of the Pyrenees. That's the place for grapes, my boy: that's the place for wine and brandy. But I'm getting excited my friend, and impertinent questions always put me a little on the rampage."

       "Was I impertinent, then, captain?"

       "Who said you were impertinent? You merely asked an impertinent question. It is sheer want of logic to argue that because a man asks an impertinent question he is therefore impertinent. But nowadays even logic is not taught in the schools. We have neither logicians nor seamen, and d—n if the best of them even know how to swear. How can a man who cannot swear judiciously be a good seaman? As well try to be a fish without being able to swim."

       This is a sample of the rhetoric in which Captain Mullingford was wont to indulge whenever anyone pressed him too closely as to his business affairs. The Excise officers themselves never hinted their suspicions regarding him. They even refrained from mentioning the word brandy at all — that is, the known excisemen. But over and over again special men had come down from London in the guise of commercial travellers, and, by offering specially cheap lines in the spirit, many had tried to get into the confidence of the supposed smuggler. But all to no use.

       "I only deal with two firms in this line," he would say. "One supplies me with the bad stuff; the other with the good. I am equally pleased with both firms, and am too old now to make a change. Have a drink?"

       When Captain Mullingford asked anyone to have a drink it was a sure sign that he wanted the subject to be changed.

       "Well, thanks, captain. I'll have a small drop of brandy, but you must really have one with me first."

       "No, I don't take drink with travellers with whom I neither deal nor intend to deal. Had I given you an order now for a few hogsheads of whisky I should expect you to pay for one all round, but, as it is, I'm paymaster."

       In these matters the captain always constituted himself the ultimate court of appeal, and no one dared dispute his decision.

       The most puzzling thing to the excisemen was that, however often they examined his stock, they found no more than twenty or thirty gallons of brandy — certainly not an unreasonable amount for a busy public-house. They put spies on to watch the premises by night and day, but, though they saw a considerable output, they never saw anything go in that was not accompanied by the legal permit.

       Things were becoming desperate, and the local supervisor was so annoyed at the failure of his men that he one day called them a lot of boobies.

       "I am prepared to bet new hats all round that that little chap Mickey Morgan from Cardiff would find out the whole secret in a week. Will anyone take me up?"

       The bet was accepted by more than a dozen of those present, and the following day the supervisor journeyed to Cardiff and interviewed Mr. Norman.

       "You've got a wonderful boy, here, Mr. Norman — an infant phenomenon who outdoes Le Coque and the more recent genius Sherlock Holmes and all and every detective ancient and modern."

       "I do not claim so much for him, sir, but I can truly say that he has been successful in nine-tenths of the cases he has undertaken."

       "I have heard so, and I want to enlist him for the space of a week or so in the service of her Majesty. The fact is, we have a smuggler in Newport whom the combined genius of Somerset House is incapable of bringing to justice, and we want to see if your young man can give us a lesson."

       "He is at your disposal, sir, on the usual terms, although there is a very important case of a private nature I had thought of putting him on to-morrow. However, the Queen before any of her subjects."

       That same night Mickey journeyed to Newport, and received full instructions from the supervisor. It did not take him long to decide on a line of action. With a small bag in his hand he called at the Three Tigers, and, finding the captain there, asked him if he could direct him to decent lodgings for a week.

       "And what in the world are you doing in these parts by yourself? And where do you come from, my lad?"

       "I came down from Manchester, sir, to meet my father, who was to arrive from Bilbao to-morrow, but I find the ship is delayed for a week, so I think it better to stop on than to pay so much railway fare and have to return again in a few days."

       "Well, well, you may be right. Do you know of any lodgings, Mary?"

       "Only Mrs. Davies's, and they are not very nice."

       "Oh, anything will do, as long as I have a good bed. I don't need to stop long in the house."

       Mrs. Davies lived next door but one, and shortly after our hero, under the name of James Mullingford, took up his temporary residence there. He had deliberately and with malice prepense, assumed the captain's own name, expecting that by such a course he might be better a able to court the confidence of the old smuggler. In this he was not mistaken.

       That very night Mickey went into the captain's bar parlour, and ordered a pint of cider, which, as has already been said, was his favourite drink. Like tea it cheered but did not inebriate, and was much preferahle to tee-total drinks. After a while the captain came in and asked him how he liked his lodgings.

       "Oh, fairly well, sir, they'll answer very well for a few days, though they don't look much like my own rooms at home."

       "Your father is well off, then my man. Is he a sailor?"

       "No. sir; he's a commercial traveller, and goes all over the world."

       "What's his name?"

       "William Mullingford, sir."

       "Mullingford? Why, that's my own name."

       "Indeed, sir; I didn't know. I have often heard my father say that it was a very scarce name."

       "Indeed it is, my boy — scarce enough, and I am really glad to meet you. What's your other name?"

       "James, sir; but they nearly always call me Jim."

       "Well, upon my word, James, you're a credit to your name. My name is also James, and before they began to dub me captain I was also known as Jim. Is not that remarkable?"

       "Indeed, it is, sir. It feels like being at home you might be my uncle, sir."

       "Tell me, my lad, where did your father's people come from?"

       "Upon my word I cannot say, but I believe we are of Irish descent. At any rate, I've often heard my mother tell my father to restrain his Irish temper."

       "I'll bet you a hogshead of brandy they came from Scotland. There are more than Irish people who have tempers. Why, I'll tell you, between ourselves. Jim, I've a devil of a temper myself, though I would not like anyone else to know it for the world."

       "But if your temper is so bad, wouldn't everybody know it?"

       "No, no; I restrain it. When inclined to break out I take a drink or fill my pipe, and it passes away."

       In this kind of chat Mickey spent a couple of hours with the captain inventing incidents and details and family reminiscences that would have done credit to a newspaper reporter or a writer of the "Herald's" office. He went early to bed, however, but three o'clock the following morning saw him in the street scrutinising each passer-by and keeping a sharp look-out on the Three Tiger-. He might as well have laid in bed. Not the least thing of a suspicious nature occurred. The following three days passed in the same manner, and then Mickey, his patience being almost exhausted, resolved upon a bold stroke. He stopped in Captain Mullingford's bar parlour till nearly eleven, and then, after saying good night to all, seized a favourable opportunity to slip down the cellar. He had provided himself with a bunch of skeleton keys. but not one of them were of use in his endeavours to open an inward door which he thought led to the spirit store. There were beer barrels in plenty around him, but he was not interested in beer. Neither were those who employed him. and he determined, by one means or another, to enter the inner sanctorum of the captain's cellar.

       He heard the doors closing above, and, judging it probable that the captain or his barman would pay a visit to the lower regions before retiring for the night, he quickly ensconsed himself underneath a bench, where even the keenest eye would have little chance of seeing him. In about half-an-bour after the captain himself came down and opened the inner door. He carried a lamp and some kind of instrument under his arm, the name or use of which Mickey Morgan did not know. For a time there was quiet inside, and then he heard some noise like the blowing of a bellows, followed soon after by a sound as of a tap running. Creeping cautiously from his hiding-place, he peeped through the doer. and saw the captain working his right arm as if he were filling the tyre of a bicycle.

       "By Jingo," thought the young detective, "I have him. That's an air pump, and he's drawing the spirits through pipes from a distance. But from where — that's the point I want to get at, and that's what I must know."

       After about half-an-hour the captain went upstairs leaving the lamp in the cellar. The liquid was still running, evidently into the cask to which the air pump was attached. Mickey quickly mounted the barrel, and was just able to see an india-rubber tube which connected the cask with an aperture in the wall, when he heard the captain's footsteps on the stairs. He had not time to withdraw to his hiding-place, but lay down behind some wine cases in a dark corner. In a few minutes more the captain withdrew, locked the door, and left our hero amongst the rats and the casks for the night. How he fared afterwards will be told in our next.

No. 17. — MICKEY MORGAN IN CAPTIVITY.

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       We left our hero securely locked in Captain Mullingford's cellar. He did not by any means bemoan his lot: on the contrary, he set about availing himself of the opportunity offered of solving once for all the mystery associated with the source of the brandy supply at the Three Tigers. He had had the foresight to provide himself with a candle and a box of matches, so was not at all put out by the circumstance of the captain having taken the lamp with him. When all was quiet upstairs he set about making further explorations, and, having lighted his candle, ascended the mysterious hogshead once more but was surprised to find no trace of the india-rubber tube which had previously seemed to establish a connection between the cask and the wall. The aperture in the wall itself had also disappeared, and everything looked as free from suspicion as the old smuggling captain could wish. But Mickey Morgan had seen too clearly to be able to fancy himself the subject of an optical delusion. He knew the pipe had been there, and he knew that half an hour previously there had been a hole in the apparently solid wall before him. An examination of the cask revealed to him a bung-hole at the back, which, however, was now filled with a cork. But the wall presented greater difficulties. After much feeling about he was able to displace a brick, and, looking into the aperture thus made, he saw the end of a lead pipe, with brass connecting screws. The pipe also was filled with a cork, which our hero quickly withdrew. As he expected no liquid came out, but his nostrils were assailed by an unmistakable smell of brandy. "Now," thought Mickey, "the next thing is to find out where that pipe leads to. Not to the house next door, for Mrs. Davies tells me the captain is not on speaking terns with his neighbour."

       "However, he concluded, "that may really be a pretence on the captain's part; and as soon as I get out of here I must manage to visit the adjoining cellar."

       But he found the task of freeing himself much harder than he had expected. The lock absolutely refused to respond to any of the skeleton keys with which he had come provided; and worst of all, it was let into the door in such manner that there was not the least chance of unscrewing it. This state of things was very disconcerting, as it would not be a very pleasant thing to be found there by the irritable captain in the morning. Not to speak of the volley of oaths the old smuggler may be expected to let fly at him, the chances were ten to one that he would resort to something in the shape of physical chastisement. Mickey's feelings towards the captain were friendly, and, even should he succeed in convicting him of smuggling, the chances were that he should allow him some loophole of escape. At any rate, such were his present intentions, but very unavailing assault on the lock increased his irritation against the landlord of the Three Tigers, and when, finally he had to give up the attempt as hopeless, he was almost resolved to let the law take its course, should he, indeed, as seemed certain, be able to bring the offence home to him. He was about to select some place where a few hours sleep could be snatched with least inconvenience when his eyes rested on a small window, securely shuttered and barred from inside. In a moment he withdrew the bolts, but was disappointed to find the window guarded by iron bars on the outside. However, he set about removing one of these, and as the window looked into a back-yard he had no fear of being observed from outside. Half an hour's work sufficed to loosen one of the bars, and the next moment he was in the yard. To climb on to the wall was an easy matter, but instead of descending into the back entry he let himself down into the yard of the adjoining house. He had been surprised to see a light burning in a back window, for it was now almost one o clock, and he determined to get a view inside. In this he had not much difficulty, for one of the laths of the Venetian blind was imperfectly closed, affording him a clear view of the room and its occupants. To his great surprise the first face he caught sight of was his friend, Captain James Mullingford, sipping contentedly at a glass of some liquid he held delicately between finger and thumb. There was another man in the room, whom Mickey at once recognised as the owner of the house, the inveterate enemy, if report were to be believed, of the irascible landlord of the Three Tigers.

       "So there you are, my fine old boy," said Mickey to himself, "drinking and smoking with your great enemy. Enemy, indeed! Faith, when I saw the direction that pipe took I guessed what kind of an enemy you had next door. Now," continued he, pursuing his meditations, "the sooner this conference breaks up the better. I must explore this other cellar to-night, for as soon as the captain sees the displaced bar in the morning he will be on his guard."

       But the conference continued, both parties seeming to be in the best of humour with each other and the whole world. Now and again our hero was able to hear a snatch of the conversation.

       "The fools to think they can come over Jim Mullingford! I defy all the Excisemen in England to find me out, and all the Scotland Yard detectives to boot!"

       "Find you out? Impossible," cried the other, "you will never be found out except by treachery, and me, at any rate, you can depend on.

       "He reminds me," thought Mickey, who had lately been reading the "History of Napoleon Before the Battle of Waterloo; or Villeneuve Before Trafalgar."

       And then seeking for further similes he thought of Belshazzar's Feast and the writing on the wall.

       "I have a good mind to break in on the old boys complacency by tapping on the window or shouting out some terrible warning — but, after all, I had better not. The supervisor wants to win his new hats and Mr. Norman wants to win credit."

       Soon after this Captain Mullingford rose to go, and directly after the back-door was opened and the two came outside. Mickey sought the obscurity of a dark corner, but the next moment, as the two went outside, he glided noiselessly into the house, went towards the cellar steps, descended into total darkness, and remained as quiet and motionless as a cat until he had heard the door locked and the sound of footsteps ascending the bedroom stairs. Even then he did not stir tor fully half an hour. He had taken care to bring his candle with him, and, having struck a light, found himself once more confronted with a locked door. The skeleton keys were again brought into requisition, but this time with greater success than in the cellar of the Three Tigers. The lock was a simpler one, and almost at once gave way. But when he got inside he was surprised to find an almost empty room. There was no sign of brandy casks or any other article of a suspicious nature. He peered into every hole and corner, examined the walls for mysterious pipes, scrutinised the floor with scrupulous care, but could find nothing to help him in his search. This was exasperating in the extreme, for he felt certain the cellar contained some secret which would, of a certainty, yield to time and perseverance. But should he have the time? It was already approaching three o'clock, and, worse than all, his candle would not last above another hour. In one corner of the cellar there was a heap of coals. Having explored everywhere else, Mickey set to removing these with his hands, making an old bottle serve as a candlestick. The floor was a flagged one, and he was able to work without making much noise. When most of the coal had been removed, he saw a large slab which bore evident marks of having been recently disturbed. Searching the cellar, he came across a bar of iron, which he utilised as a lever, and in a few minutes had raised the flag on end. His heart gave a great bound, for underneath was the entrance to another cellar or a subterranean passage of some kind. Taking his candle, he descended a narrow ladder, and soon found himself on another floor. But he quickly perceived he was net yet at the bottom, for another ladder led to lower depths still. It was here the great discovery awaited him. Two immense casks lay endways on the floor, and here he felt sure was the immediate source of Captain Mullingford's brandy supply. But where did the liquid come from originally? How did it descend so mysteriously into the bowels of the earth, in spite of the diligence of her Majesty's Customs and Excise? A little further observation threw light on this subject. One of the docks were close at hand, and it did not need a great deal of consideration to come to the conclusion that the two pipes he saw protruding from the walls could be in some way put into communication with any ship that may happen to lie alongside. Further observation showed him a pipe leading upwards from this subterranean vault.

       "The very pipe, I'm sure, that leads to the captain's cellar," he thought. "Now let me see what these casks contain."

       He pulled out one of the bungs, and was rewarded by a smell of old Jamaica rum. The other cask, as he fancied, contained brandy, and Mickey Morgan, by means of a dipping tube, withdrew a small quantity for his own personal use.

       "I feel I stand in need of and deserve a stimulant," he said.

       Scarcely had he swallowed the brandy when he heard footsteps descending the ladder. Turning round, he was confronted by the owner of the house.

       "What the deuce are you doing here, and who are you?" he shouted.

       "Can't you see what I am doing — drinking to your good health," returned our hero, who always felt coolest when in tight places. The newcomer did not, however, respond to this light vein.

       "Who are you?" he again shouted, more fiercely than before.

       "Oh, you may ask the captain. He will tell you that my name is James Mullingford, a somewhat distant relative of his own."

       "That's a lie. He has no relative; and if he had he would take good care not to introduce them into this place. But the game is up, my fine fellow. You are some sneaking spy belonging to the Customs, and you will never get out of here alive."

       As he spoke he approached our hero menacingly, but Mickey, who, on the advice of Mr. Norman, always carried a revolver with him, presented that article to the other's breast and politely requested him to keep cool.

       "There is no longer any use in denying who I am," he continued, "my name is Michael Morgan, detective, employed by the authorities to find out how Captain Mullingford receives his foreign brandy, and I have done so. Now, I intend to get out of here at once, even if I have to shoot you. The law will hold me blameless whilst, if anything happens to me, you will be in prison in half an hour. The authorities know where I am, and if I don't report myself at once they will be herein ten minutes.

       This latter assertion was a pure invention on the part of our hero, but a detective who is unable to tell a plausible lie can scarcely be a good detective, and our readers by this time are well aware that Mickey Morgan had not his superior in the country. At any rate, his statement made a great impression on Captain Mullingford's confederate, and he stood out of the way as if to let our hero pass.

       This he was nothing loth to do, taking care, however, to retreat backward and keep the smuggler covered by his revolver. In this manner also he ascended the stairs, but scarcely had he reached the top when he felt himself seized from behind, and the next moment the revolver was wrenched from his grasp.

       "So here you are, my young bantam cock. By the d—–, I always thought you a smart lad, and am sorry your name is not Mullingford — you'd be a credit to it, for you are the only one who has succeeded in bamboozling the captain of that ilk. But, all the same, you must die."

       "Yes, I must die some time, captain, but not to-day, and never by your hands. In the first place, as I have already told your friend, the enemy here, if I do not report myself to the Custom House people in a few minutes, both they and the police will be down upon you; and, in the second place, I am going to propose terms to you. I may tell you that such had been my intention had I been able to get away from here in safety. For one thing I like you, captain; and I am not a bit anxious to see you fined or imprisoned."

       "Thanks," said the captain.

       "And another thing. I don't think smuggling in itself is a great crime. It would be far worse, in my opinion, to steal a penny from a poor fellow who wanted it for bread."

       "Agreed, again."

       "Well, such being the case, I am willing to let you off, on condition that you turn over your present stock of contraband spirits to the authorities, and promise to give up the business."

       "But how am I going to do that without rendering myself liable to correction?"

       "Easy enough. Put some casks in your back yard, pump up the spirits from below, as you do to your own bar, and send the whole to-morrow night to a place I shall name. I can go at once and stop all inquiries, as well as put an end to the vigilance with which your house is at present surrounded. I will, indeed, come back if you like, and help you to carry out the work."

       "Can I depend upon you?"

       "I have never yet, sir, broken my word."

       "well, I believe you, my lad, and, upon my word. I am sick of the business. I have a little pile laid by that will serve me for the rest of my days; and I don't feel inclined to buy my present security by a crime. You may go!"

       Mickey Morgan at once left the premises, but, as he really had no one to whom he intended to report anything, he returned after a very short absence.

       "So here you are again. Well, let's set to work to carry out your plan, though I would much prefer to keep the present stock."

       "In that case, sir, what evidence could I shew that the smuggling was going to cease. You must hand over every drop to the authorities."

       "All right, but let it be to-night instead of to-morrow night. I have not got above a couple of hundred gallons altogether."

       The pumping operations at once commenced, and long before sunrise the contraband spirits were carried to an obscure yard some little distance from the house.

       About nine o'clock Mickey went in search of the supervisor, and, after some trouble, got him to agree to the conditions he had promised the captain. The supervisor, who looked upon smuggling as a grievous crime, only finally consented to the proposed compromise when Mickey threatened to hold his tongue altogether, and, further, to assist the captain in evading the law.

       "My word is my word, sir: and without me you would never have found out anything at all."

       "Well, it must be so, I suppose; but I should give a year's salary to see that sly old dog pay a thousand pounds fine or go to gaol for a few years."

       Half an hour later Mickey delivered over the confiscated property to the supervisor and one or two other officers.

       "You have won your bet, sir," cried the latter, "and we freely confess the combined detective ability of Somerset House falls short of that represented by the person of this wonderful Mickey Morgan."

       A short time afterwards our hero went to say good-bye to the captain.

       "You have conquered me in a fair fight, my lad; you have brought about my retirement from trade of all kinds, and, by the Lord, I bear you no ill will. Instead of that you will find when my body has gene to Davy Jones that I have remembered you with gratitude."

       Many years afterwards our hero found that the captain had been as good as his word.

No. 18. — MISS BRADLEY'S FUNERAL CARD.

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       That Miss Bertha Bradley was dead no one seemed to doubt. Her friends in Cardiff had received funeral cards announcing the fact, and for a long time nothing been seen of her. The cards bore the following words in foregn-looking type:3

       "In loving memory of Miss Bertha Bradley, who was accidentally drowned at Biarritz on June 22, 18—, and interred two days later at the English cemetery in that town."

       But the queer thing about the matter was this — that a very few days before her death she had withdrawn all the money standing to her credit in a Cardiff bank, and had converted what represented a considerable fortune in securities into coin of the realm. Of this property not the slightest trace could be found. Her wearing apparel and some of her jewels were found in her trunks in the Palace Hotel at the French watering-place; but, beyond a few pounds in ready money, nothing more could be discovered. Neither, as far as could be ascertained, had she in any way re-invested the money. Brokers and bankers were communicated with, but all gave the same answer — they had absolutely nothing standing in Miss Bradley's name, and knew nothing about her personal affairs.

       Fully a weak elapsed after her death before any tidings of the sad event reached her parents, and then the only intimation they received was the funeral card quoted above. Who had got it printed and who had posted it? Mr. Bradley had employed a smart detective to find out, but his efforts were unavailing. He did, indeed, discover that the deceased had often been seen in company with another young lady, supposed to be Spanish, but the latter never visited her at the hotel. That it could be the young senorita who had forwarded the cards seemed improbable, for it was thought she had no knowledge of English. Certainly, when overheard, the two were always conversing in French, so that the supposition seemed a reasonable one.

       The hotel manager could throw no light on the subject. He had assisted the authorities in endeavouring to find out amongst her belongings where her relatives lived, but she had received no correspondence whilst stopping there, nor could any old letters be found. In the hotel book she was simply registered as of London, and no further indication as to where she came from could be discovered. But in spite of that the funeral cards had been posted in Biarritz, and each one correctly addressed. It never entered the bereaved's father's mind to doubt that his daughter had been drowned. Otherwise how came she to leave her clothes and jewels at the hotel? And, besides, she had been identified by the servants of the hotel as the young lady who under that name had passed a matter of five days there. The funeral had been altogether too hurried to please the father; but, nevertheless, he could scarcely grumble, knowing that the authorities were only following out their invariable rule in ordering interments in the month of June to take place within forty-eight hours of the decease. The daughter, then, he gave up for lost, but the loss of the money he could not reconcile himself to without, at any rate, making many efforts to recover it.

       There was one man to whom the news of Bertha Bradley's death came almost as a death-blow. This was Ellis Rowland, to whim until a few weeks before her departure from Cardiff she had been for a long time secretly engaged. He also had received a funeral card, an event which gave rise in his mind to a horrible suspicion, which was that Bertha Bradley had really committed suicide and had left with someone a list of those to whom an intimation should be conveyed. Otherwise he thought it very improbable that he could be known as one to whom a card should be sent. Only one person beyond themselves knew of the engagement, and that was Mr. Bradley, who had only acquired the information a few days before his daughter left Cardiff. But we will go back a little and tell something of the love affairs of Ellis Howland. He was a young man who had received an Oxford education, but instead of taking Orders, as his father wished him, he became stage-struck, and joined a comedy company, at that time touring the second rate provincial theatres. He had considerable dramatic talent, and soon acquired a reputation amongst theatre-goers. On or off the stage he was a handsome man, always dressed as a gentleman, and was known to managers and companions as entirely upright, and one who could always be depended upon to do his best. It happened that he came across an old college chum when in Cardiff, and by this means got introduced to Miss Bradley. They were mutually impressed with each other, and in a few days such an intimacy sprang up between them that they agreed to correspond. This went on for six months, and when, on his second visit to Cardiff, the two met once more they became engaged. It was Miss Bradley's wish that nothing should be said on the subject for the present. The truth was that on reaching her twenty-first year she would come into a considerable fortune, and she wanted to be independent before her father was made aware of her engagement to an actor. To do Howland justice, he had not the least notion that Miss Bradley was an heiress, and loved her entirely for herself. It had never entered into his head to inquire what her private means may have been. If he had any idea on the subject at all, it was that his sweetheart was poor. Certainly there never was any ostentation of wealth shown in her dress or deportment. Miss Bradley, for her part, was delighted that the actor knew nothing of her delighted that the actor knew nothing of her prospective riches. It w is nice to be loved entirely for herself, and the more she thought of this, the more strongly did her affections cling round her lover.

       Her twenty-first birthday came and went. She was now mistress of herself and of her fortune; and was beginning to meditate on the best manner of breaking the news of the engagement to her parents. As far as her mother was concerned, she had no fear that the announcement would affect her in any way; but her father had a holy terror of the stage and anything that belonged to it. She anticipated considerable trouble in that direction, but, all the same, she knew herself to be strong enough to resist any amount of parental pressure. Her troubles, however, came to her in an entirely unexpected manner, and left her nothing to say, either against her father or her mother. One morning the following letter in the handwriting of her sweetheart, was put into her hands:—

       "To-day a circumstance has come to my knowledge which compels me imperatively to break off the engagement between us. I need not tell you what it is. You know it can be nothing discreditable to yourself, and I assure you it is nothing discreditable to me. But our love affair, if not our love, has come to a sudden end; and I have given my word of honour never to see you again, nor to receive a letter from you, nor to write to you anything beyond these few parting words. Though an actor, I believe you know me to be man enough to carry out the heart-breaking role I am compelled to play, and will believe me when I say I would give half my life could we continue to go on in the old sweet, loving way. I return you the little souvenirs I so fondly prized, including the lock of hair which since I received it from you has been my constant companion by day and night. Good-bye, then, old sweetheart, and may God bless you and make you happy always."

       It would be vain of us to try to describe poor Bertha's feelings when she read this note. She could not understand it, but she realised that her lover was gone from her and that her happiness was destroyed for ever. She knew herself too well to think that time would cure the wound, or that she could ever love again.

       As soon as the first paroxysms of her grief were over, she began to ponder as to what could be the motives which had induced her lover to treat her in such a way, and then all of a sudden it dawned upon her that her father was in some way connected with the catastrophe. He had been absent for two days, no one knew where, and the chances were, she thought, that he had in some way become aware of her engagement, and had gone to her lover to put an end to it. Then she remembered she had lost one of Howland's letters, and it seemed likely enough that her father had found it. This suspicion was strengthened by the furtive looks he directed towards her as soon as she made her first appearance on the morning after receiving the fatal letter. She was not a girl to rest in doubt wherever she saw an opportunity of enlightenment.

       "Father," she said, suddenly, "I believe you know about Ellis Howland, and that he has thrown me over."

       "Yes; I know you were undutiful enough to take up with a strolling player. Fortunately, I was able to learn all about it in time."

       "And what have you done?"

       "Oh, nothing much. I simply squared him. Money can do anything, my dear, and your comedian is too much a man of the world not to know that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."

       "You squared him? Do you mean to say, sir, that you offered him money? If so, you are no father of mine."

       "Oh, yes; I offered him money, and he took it. He is a sensible kind of fellow after all. He came to the conclusion that the life of a ranchero in America, with a pretty milkmaid for a wife, would be much more agreeable than making a fool of himself night after night for the sake of a silly public. He is now ploughing the watery main, and I am not at all sure that he has not got the milkmaid with him."

       Mr. Bradley was, on the whole, a kind father, and in this case, although he knew himself to be lying egregiously he considered he was doing a good turn to his daughter. He did not know her, however. Restraining her emotion with a great effort, she looked him squarely in the face; told him she did not believe one word of what he said, and then proudly left the room. That very hour she ordered her maid to prepare for a journey, and the day after started for London en route for Paris and Biarritz. Before going something suggested to her the idea of writing a letter to her old sweetheart and leaving it in charge of a confidential servant, to be given to Howland should he, by any chance, ever call at the house.

       As a matter of fact, about a month later, when all the world had been made aware of her death, the ex-actor did call upon Mr. Bradley. The interview between them was painful in the extreme, but was nothing to the scene which took place later after Howland had received and read his sweetheart's letter.

       This was what it contained:—

       "I have received your very cruel letter, and cannot understand it. But I suppose I never understood you, although I would have staked my life¸ on your honour. My father tells me you have accepted money from him to break off our engagement, and have already set sail to America. lie also hinted something about a milkmaid; but, as at the moment of writing I am inclined to look upon most of what he said as pious lies, I will not reproach you on the subject. I give you this assurance, however (should this letter ever fall into your hands) that between the two of you, you have broken my heart; and this very day, without even a word of good-bye, I quit my father for ever. In any case I cannot forgive him; and, as for you. if what he says be true, you are beneath all contempt."

       As soon as Howland had read this letter he demanded another audience of Mr. Bradley. Then, thrusting the letter into his hand, he demanded in tones thrilling with indignation if the contents were true.

       "What is the use of crying over spilt milk?" returned the father, composedly.

       "By G—–, you have driven the poor girl to suicide, and are the meanest dog alive!"

       The idea of suicide had never before entered into Mr. Bradley's mind. but now, in an instant the conviction came home to him that the actor was right, and that his unhappy daughter had taken her own life.

       "By heavens, Bradley, you are less than a man. You knew very well I was entirely unaware of your daughter's fortune; you knew that my whole life was wrapped up in her; you knew that she loved me; you saw that I put her own happiness, or what you represented to be her happiness, before my own; and that I gave her up in spite of all the love I felt, and will ever feel for her. And now another thing comes to me. You were lying, Bradley. when you told me of that previous engagement. By the Lord, I see it in your eyes, you cruel hound; you have undone us both."

       The unhappy father stood conscience-stricken and self-convicted before the just indignation of the lover. He was almost incapable of uttering a word; but at length, with an effort, he pointed to the door and muttered disjointedly:

       "Go; leave me; I wish to be alone."

       The state of Howland's feelings may easily be imagined. He was at all times a very temperate man, as far as drinking was concerned, but this day when he reached the Royal Hotel he swallowed glass after glass of raw brandy, without being able to relieve in the least the terrible despondency at his heart. Then, on an instant, an inspiration came to him which sent the blood coursing to his veins with trebled velocity.

       "What if she were not dead at all?" She was just the kind of girl, he thought, to take advantage of the accidental drowning of somebody else and change names with her. The fact that her maid had never been found seemed also to favour this supposition. At any rate, he resolved to investigate the matter to the end. He was, fortunately, at liberty at the time, so the journey to Biarritz could be undertaken at once. lie went in search of the friend who had first presented him to Miss Bradley, and explained the state of affairs. That gentleman was not a little surprised to hear of the engagement, but at once concurred in the view that the young lady may not have died, after all. He gave Howland further advice, without which, it is probable, he never would have been able to solve the problem he was so interested in clearing up.

       "Go to Biarritz by all means, Howland; but take my advice, get a competent detective to assist you. A Frenchman would, perhaps, be better, but we have a young fellow here, named Mickey Morgan, who is as sharp as a weasel, and has an unfailing instinct for clearing up difficult cases."

       The result was that the following day our hero and Howland set out for France. Mickey was only too glad to have a chance of seeing foreign parts, and, next to viewing the Falls of Niagara, the thing he had most ambition to see was a Frenchman devouring a frog. But in this respect he was destined to remain unsatisfied; nor would the anxiety of the disconsolate lover permit of any loitering in the French capital. Nor in the journey southward did our hero see much to draw his attention, the only interesting feature of the journey being the circumstance that everybody seemed to be able to speak French. Mickey himself, under the careful tutelage of his old friend and second mother, had already acquired a fair proficiency in that language; but he was painfully forced to admit the fact that the smallest boy he met on the journey could give him a long start in the manipulation of the Gallic tongue. After passing through innumerable pine forests and the weary wastes of the Landes, Biarritz was at last reached. Our two travellers took up their residence at the Palace Hotel, the principal rendezvous of les Anglais, and lost no time in setting about their inquiries. Their first efforts in this direction were not encouraging. The servants of the hotel were absolutely positive that it was Miss Bradley who had been drowned; so were others who had noticed the young lady. They could give no account whatever of the maid; she left the hotel even before the interment took place. Neither could anyone say anything as regards the young Spanish lady beyond tho fact that she was supposed to belong to San Sebastian. Mickey managed to pick up another clue, however, in the shape of a portrait of the latter young lady, which had been taken during her stay at Biarritz.

       Howland was for exhuming the body, but as that process involved much delay it was decided that Mickey should cross over the Pyrenees to San Sebastian and endeavour to find out something there. Taking with him a portrait of Miss Bradley, as well as one of the senorita, he set out. His first visit was to the English Consul, but that gentleman, after examining the portraits carefully, could not say that he had ever seen the originals, but could by no means be certain, as it was the period of the Royal visit, and the town was filled with strange faces. A few days passed in fruitless search, and then one evening, as he was listening to the music of the band in the Grand Plaza, his heart suddenly gave a great bound, and then for a moment almost ceased to beat. Right before him stood the originals of the two portraits in his pocket. He pulled them out to make sure. There could be no doubt whatever. He had found Bertha Bradley and her Spanish friend. His first impulse was to rush to the telegraph office and wire to Howland, but then he remembered that his first duty was to track the young ladies to their home. Fortunatety, he had not long to wait nor far to go, for ten minutes afterwards they left the plaza and entered a house in an adjoining street — the Calle de Tetuan. Then he despatched his telegram, "Come at once; believe I have found both; congratulations," wrote Mickey, and never was telegram received with such joy as that short production brought to the lonely, heart-broken man in Biarritz. There is no necessity to describe the meeting of the two lovers. One look in her sweetheart's face was enough to convince Bertha that he had been belied.

       "Don't say one word, darling; I can see you have been deceived; and oh, Ellis, I am so glad to see you."

       The British Consul a few days later tied the knot, and should anyone visit the delightful Spanish watering-place of San Sebastian during the coming summer they will find our two lovers as happy and bright as lovers ought to be; and with very warm places in their heart for Mickey Morgan. The secret of the drowning was that on reaching Biarritz Miss Bradley had given her name to her maid, whilst she herself filled the humbler role. It was the maid who was drowned.

No. 19. — BROKEN RING.

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       Those who have taken the trouble of following so far the fortunes and adventures of Mickey Morgan will know that latterly he had been moving in a rank of society of which his early training as a newsboy gave little or no promise. Much of his social success he owed to Mrs. Simmons, and it was to that lady he was indebted for an introduction to a Mrs. Reynolds, the widow of an Army medical officer, with whom he ultimately took up his residence. Mrs. Reynolds had an only daughter, Alice, who was at once the delight and the plague of Mickey's life. She was a good-hearted, mischievous girl of eighteen, with a pair of grey-blue roguish eyes, and a mane of dark glossy hair, which, when in deshabille, gave her something of the appearance of a spirited Shetland pony. Mickey Morgan and she became great friends from the start, for, though our hero was generally shy with the opposite sex, he was always able to respond to feminine badinage with the utmost frankness. During her father's life-time Alice Reynolds had lived a good deal in Ireland, and when she chose to assume the brogue could do so with a precision which the untravelled British Philistine might in vain endeavour to emulate.

       Now Miss Reynolds knew that our hero's mother hailed from the Emerald Isle, and it suited her humour to pretend at times that the only language Mickey was capable of understanding was that of the "Gorsoons" of Limerick or Tipperary.

       "Wisha, how are you, Misther Morgan," she would say. "Sure 'tis yerself's the great detective intoirely. Begor, there isn't another man in the whole world like ye; ye can bate all the peelers into smithereens, alanna."

       And then she world shake hands with him and laugh in her merry, good-natured way.

       "An' what will ye have for tay, sur? Sure 'tis your the divil's own boy for the tay! Glory be to God, what could ye do widout it at all at all, ye poor crathur."

       "Now, I'll have coffee to vex you, and won't look at 'tay' for a week. I'd have you know, Miss Madcap, that I am a nan who is master of his likes and dislikes. Now, I verily believe I could hate you if I tried."

       "I defy ye, ye little spalpeen; sure ye worship the ground I walk on."

       And then she would break into the bar of an Irish song:—

"The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound; Oh! says Mickey, I'd rather love you than the ground."

       "It's a pity ye're not a bit bigger, Mickey, aroon; shure if ye were 'tis meself would be yer very own sweetheart —

"The ground that I walk on he loves I'll be bound" —

       "Depend upon it. you will be bound some day — in matrimony or Bridgend, Miss Harebrain; and then, maybe, you'll be glad enough for your friend Mickey to come to your assistance."

       "An' shure I know ye would come ye poor crathur, an' I wouldn't be the only disthressed faymale ye ever protected from a brutal husband or a madhouse. I know all about yer doings, me boy!

       "How often do ye go to see that sly little widow. Mrs. Traynor, that ye found in the asylum at Hereford? Faith, Mickey, agra, if I didn't know ye wor head an ears in love wid meself, I'd be jealous of her an' fall out wid ye."

       "Do you think yourself as good looking as Mrs. Traynor?"

       "Betther, much betther. me darlin', an' I can't fall out wid ye on account of her. Sure I'd like quarrel wid ye, for the sake of makin' it up again —

For sea and shore have kissed once more, An' so have Mick an' I; Oh, isn't a squall like this, after all, Worth years of fair weather sky?

Do ye see the point?"

       "Oh, quite plainly. Girls are all so fond of kissing; they'd do anything in the world if they were sure of getting coddled a little afterwards."

       "An' who towld ye so, mi bowld philosopher? Wisha, tell me. Mickey, mauroon, have ye ever kissed a girul?"

       "No; but one or two have kissed me in spite of myself?"

       "Mrs. Traynor, for instance? An' do ye know, Mickey, I'd just kiss ye meself; only some day I'll maybe have a real sweetheart, an' if he said to me. 'Alice, have you ever kissed any man before?' faith, I'd have to howld down my head an' blush."

       "But you have often told me I'm not a man."

       "But yer worse — yer a detective. Oh, goodness me, fancy having to tell my sweetheart I'd kissed a detective."

       Poor Alice little knew how soon she was to have a sweetheart, and what sorrow he would bring in his train. As little did she dream that she should ever stand in need of Mickey Morgan's services; yet both events came in quick succession soon after the conversation reported above.

       Alice kept her love affair to herself, but both her mother and our hero noticed that after attending a fashionable ball at the Cardiff Town-hall a gradual change seemed to be taking place in her. Some days she was more lively and boisterous than ever; whilst at times she seemed to sink to the lowest depths of despondency. To Mickey, who had come to regard the girl as a kind, teasing sister, and loved her as such, the change was more painful and apparent than to the mother. But to neither of them did the girl utter a word as to her affairs.

       Her silence gave Mickey Morgan not a little trouble of mind; he knew that at times, at least, she was thoroughly and completely unhappy. and he would have liked her to admit him into her confidence. Notwithstanding their familiarity, he was too shy to inquire the cause of her alternating moods. Once, indeed, he did hazard the casual remark that she was not looking like herself. Then she turned to him in the old gay way, her eyes sparkled with the old merriment, and she broke into a song:—

"Oh, I'm not meself at all. Mickey dear; Me appetite's so small; I once could pick a goose. Now my newest dress is loose. Faith, the buttons are no use, Mickey dear, An' I'm not meself at all."

       Then she looked up at him for a moment, dropped her eyes, and, as she ran from the room, burst into tears. Poor Mickey was distressed beyond measure at this demonstration, and to hide his own feelings went out for a walk with "Prince."

       As usual, when puzzled or perturbed he took his canine friend into his confidence.

       "Now, my dear comrade, "Prince," what do you think of our friend Alice? She must be in love — but with whom? Should you and I endeavour to find out? She might possibly regard such a course as impertinent, as she has not cared to take us into her confidence. But she has many times gone out alone lately, and I think we might accidentally find out where she goes to, and whom she sees. If she has a lover and he is not kind to her, he will be no friend of ours, my "Prince" of Cardiff, my paragon of dogs."

       "Prince" barked and looked terrible, as much as to say, "Show me the man who dares to be unkind to our Alice, and as sure as I've a tooth in my head I'll go mad and bite him." Mickey applauded this resolution, and as a reward for his virtuous sentiments produced from the pocket of his overcoat a particularly savoury biscuit, which his friend lost no time in converting to the use for which it was intended.

       That evening Alice Reynolds went out once more alone, but our hero was not at hand to follow her. About ten o'clock she returned to the house, looking pale and wild-eyed. Without speaking a word she rushed upstairs to her room, flung herself on the bed, and the next moment burst into a wild, uncontrollable fit of weeping. Mickey heard her sobs downstairs, and went to acquaint Mrs. Reynolds as to her daughter's condition. That mild lady at once ascended the stairs, but stopped at the door of her daughter's room thunderstruck — the sobbing had given place to hysterical shrieks. She tried to open the door, but found it locked; then she called aloud, but the poor girl inside took no notice. The shrieks increased in violence, and then for a moment subsided.

       "Oh, my ring, my ring!"

       These words came to Mrs. Reynolds's ears through the door, and then the shrieking began once more. The unhappy mother renewed her calls:

       "Alice, dearest, open the door; it is I, your mother, who wants you."

       But her appeal fell on unheeding ears. Then Mickey Morgan, who was listening at the bottom of the stairs, came up and offered to open the door. He was now well versed in lockcraft, and by the aid of his skeleton keys could overcome all the ordinary contrivances of the whitesmith's art. Fortunately, the key had fallen from the lock inside, so it only required a few seconds to throw the door open. The poor girl was kneeling beside the bed, clutching the clothes convulsively with her hands, shrieking and shouting, "My ring, my ring," by turns. Mrs. Reynolds tried to take the heartbroken girl to her arms, but she shrank from her as if she had been a complete stranger. Then Mickey Morgan spoke.

       "Miss Alice, dear, if you have lost a ring, don't you know I'll find it for you? Believe me, I'll find it — so try to compose yourself."

       "Oh! my ring, my ring, 'tis broken, and I'm lost for ever."

       "Do you know anything about a ring, Mrs. Reynolds?" he asked.

       "She had a large ring which her father had brought from the East, and which she prized very much. It was supposed to possess some spell in connection with a lover which I never rightly understood."

       "And did she usually carry it about with her?"

       "Always. She wore it suspended from a ribbon over her breast."

       "Do see if it's there now."

       But at that moment the distracted Alice tore open the bodice of her dress, and drew forth the ring, which now, alas, seemed to be broken and battered. With some difficulty our hero managed to get possession of it, and by the aid of a microscope was able to decipher the following words inscribed in the minutest characters:—

"Agus morren an maya ca den, Leyno pringen mala for ren; Le tira la mnangan menore, Ternila pro pengen tilore."

       Mickey Morgan made a careful copy of the words, and returned the ring to its owner. Soon after this Alice became somewhat more restrained, and her mother managed to put her to bed. In the meantime Mickey went to fetch his friend, Dr. Simmons. On seeing the patient the doctor looked very grave indeed.

       "She has had some terrible mental shock," he said, "and is just entering on a brain fever. God grant that nothing worse may happen."

       "What do you mean, Dr. Simmons?" asked Mrs. Reynolds, very much alarmed.

       "I mean, and I am very sorry to have to tell you. that your daughter may lose the use of her senses altogether."

       Dr. Simmons was sometimes a little too plain spoken regarding his patients, and had he seen what the effects of his words would have been in this case he would no doubt have been less outspoken. As it was, he tried to wipe off their effects almost as soon as they were uttered, but Mrs. Reynolds fell in a lump by the bedside and fainted away. She was not usually very demonstrative in her affections, but was, on the whole, a very kind and indulgent mother.

       For weeks Alice Reynolds tossed on her pillow and raved away incoherently. By special request, Mickey Morgan was allowed to be present when her worst fits were on. He had sent the words on the ring to a well-known Eastern scholar in London, who sent him by return the following translation:—

"Whilst unbroken this ring remains, Two lovers are bound in unbreakable chains; But ah! should this band ever sever, The lovers are parted for ever and ever."

       Mickey had rightly come to the conclusion that there was a lover in the case, and the condition of the ring went to show that it had been deliberately broken and trampled on. Now his great object was to find out who this lover was, and it seemed likely enough that by listening to poor Alice's ravings he would be able to find out the desired information. She had over and over again muttered the name Clarence, but, so far, had given no further indication as to the identity of her lover. Clarence is not a very common name, but, all the same, it afforded too little data with which to undertake a search in a large place like Cardiff. Besides, he had no assurance that the mysterious Clarence lived in Cardiff at all.

       The brain fever came to an end at last, and Alice rose from her bed a helpless, but harmless, maniac. Mickey Morgan was grieved to the soul by her condition, and became more resolved than ever to seek out the author of her misfortunes, then it occurred to him that an advertisement in the papers might have some effect, and the day after the following announcement appeared in the "Western Mail":—

       "To Clarence. — If you want news of A., who is grievously ill, meet me in the vestibule of the 'Mail' Office this evening at eight. I shall wear a blue ribbon in my coat. — M. M."

       This advertisement had run for three days, and Mickey Morgan religiously kept his tryst. The first two nights he waited unavailingly for half an hour beyond the appointed time, but the unknown Clarence did not turn up. On the third evening, however, a young gentleman tapped him on the shoulder and asked:—

       "Is it you who put that announcement in the "Mail"? I am Clarence, and if you refer to Alice Reynolds, for God's sake, tell me all you know about her."

       "She has just recovered from a brain fever, but is now insane."

       "My God! my God! what have I done? Are you a relative of hers?"

       "No: my name is Mickey Morgan. I am a detective."

       "A detective? And do you live with Mrs. Reynolds?"

       "Yes; she and her daughter have been the kindest friends to me."

       "Oh, I deserve to be damned eternally for an insensate, jealous fool!" and as he spoke he walked up and down distractedly, striking his forehead vicious blows at every stop.

       "Look here. my little man. Listen to what I have done. I must tell it to somebody. That sweet girl, who knew my hasty, jealous temper, though she at times feared me, often took a delight in teasing me."

       "Just like what your Alice was, sir."

       "Well, she never told me where she lived, and would not do so until we were engaged. The last night I saw her we were about to become so, and she gave me a ring which, she said, if not broken, would bind us together for ever and ever. When he had put the ring on my finger I asked her her a kiss, and then, in my petty jealousy, inquired if she had ever kissed a man before. She looked up at me slyly and shyly, and said, 'Well, there is a detective living in our house who is very fond of me, and I'm very fond of him, and once — but before she could continue I snatched the ring from my finger and trampled it under my feet. Now, my God, I can see it was you she meant and —–"

       "But she never did kiss me, sir. I am sure that Alice has never kissed a man in her life, unless it may have been yourself."

       "I know, I know. I can quite believe you, and now she's lost to me for ever!"

       He ran up the street like a madman, but Mickey, to whom he had given a card, knew his address, and did not follow.

       A plan for restoring his friend to her senses had suddenly occurred to him. That night he got possession of the broken ring, sent it to Birmingham, and in a few days after it came back to him looking perfect and uninjured, and, according to Mrs. Reynolds herself, exactly as it had been before.

       Then Mickey went in to Alice, and, putting on some of the old airs he used to adopt during their former encounters, began to sing:—

The ground that I walk on he loves I'll be bound, Ooh, says Mickey, I'd rather love you than the ground."

And then, laughing merrily, he went slowly towards her holding up the ring, as a mother would hold up a sweetmeat. In a moment a new light came into her eyes; she rushed forward, seized the ring, hugged it to her breast for a moment, and then burst into tears. When her crying fit was over she was herself once more.

       "Why, I dreamt I lost this ring," she said, "and was so sad about it."

       At that moment her mother came into the room.

       "Mother, where's the ribbon belonging to my ring? I have been so wretched about it."

       "I'll get you another ribbon, dear. Come and have your tea."

       Alice Reynolds, though in other respects restored to her full health, had forgotten all about her irascible lover, and, perhaps, it was as well for her that she did so.

No. 20. — A ST. PATRICK'S DAY INCIDENT.

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       It was the 17th day of March a few years ago, and some Irish residents in Cardiff had met together to celebrate the festival of their patron saint. The occasion was honoured by the presence of one of the fiery representatives of the Green Isle, with a great reputation for oratory, obstruction, and asking questions. We cannot say if he were the identical member who once boasted at a meeting of his constituents that during the last session of Parliament he had asked no fewer than 249 questions. "What a very ignorant man you must be!" exclaimed one of the audience, who had not yet realised the fact that members only ask questions when they want to waste time or think they know far more upon the subject than the interrogated Minister. At any rate, Mr. Hooley. M.P., was an indefatigable worker for the cause, and the Cardiff Irishmen were delighted to have him with them.

       The meeting-place was the banquetting-rooms of one of the principal hotels, and, after the more substantial viands had been disposed of, the waiters brought in an assortment of liquids ranging in colour and potency from Guinness's stout to Moel and Chandon champagne. Then the toasts commenced, and, following old-time precedent, "Ireland a Nation" came first on the list. It was drunk with acclamation, so were those of "The Irish Parliamentary Party," "Our English Ailies," and another. Then came that of "The Irish at Home and Abroad," to which an Irish-American, who happened to be in Cardiff at the time, was to respond. But when called upon by the chairman he had disappeared. A few minutes before he was very much in evidence, for he was a remarkable man for his size and general appearance. Yet no one, as far as could be ascertained, had seen him leave the room. This seemed an extraordinary circumstance to all, particularly as there were at least half-a-dozen waiters about, who may be presumed to have paid but very little attention to the toasting and speaking. But each of them denied any knowledge of Mr. Scanlan. and some of them at least seemed as astonished as the banquetters themselves at his mysterious disappearance. Dr. Collins, who was in the chair, was for going on with the proceedings, and leaving the American to look after himself, as anyone who has lived even a few weeks on that interesting continent is supposed to he able to do, better than we darned, sheepy. one-eyed, old-world curmudgeons. But there was general uneasiness, and the company, instead of listening to the speakers, had their ears continually directed towards the sounds in the corndor and their eyes towards the door. Some of them, indeed, left the hotel altogether, and began to parade the streets in search of the missing man. Policemen were questioned, cabmen brought under examination, newsboys stopped, but all to no purpos — Mr. Thomas Scanlan was not to be found. One by one the searchers returned to the hotel, and Dr. Collins once more endeavoured to restore tranquillity.

       "Gentlemen," he said, "we are all sorry that, for some reason or another, Mr. Scanlan is not here to perform his appointed part in the evening's programme, but we must remember that he may have some very serious reason for absenting himself at this critical moment, and that it may have been his very desire not to interfere with the enjoyment of the evening which induced him to leave without an explanation. At any rate, I am sure Mr. Scanlan would be thoroughly grieved to know that he had been the innocent cause of preventing us from enjoying to the full the remaining portion of the evening's entertainment. As you are aware, some very clever artistes have come, at much inconvenience to themselves, to enliven us with Irish music and song, and it would be nothing short of ingratitude if we did not appreciate their kindness by at once taking our seats and letting the programme proceed. No doubt Mr. Scanlan will turn up before the evening finishes."

       At this point a gentleman, who was a stranger to all in the room, got up, and, with some trace of an American accent said:—

       "Will you excuse me intervening, Mr. Chairman? I know Mr. Scanlan well; he is, in fact, my dearest friend, and I am quite sure he must have some good reason for his absence. I agree with you, sir, that for the moment we should endeavour to forget him. If when your programme is finished he does not turn up, then we can all lend a hand in searching for him.

       Mr. Hooley, M.P., quite concurred with this view of the case.

       "We shall find him sooner or later, you may depend."

       "Send Mickey Morgan after him," shouted some one. whilst several other voices cried "Hear, hear."

       "That is by no means a bad idea," continued the doctor, "and if you will excuse me for a moment I will send for the young fellow. I have reason to believe he is at home."

       This seemed to tranquilise the assembly to some extent, and when Dr. Collins returned to the room he found that nearly all had resumed their seats.

       Mickey, as soon as he had received the doctor's message, proceeded at once to the hotel, and, having received his instructions, set about his difficult task without delay.

       As luck would have it, he had brought his dog "Prince" with him, and now rejoiced in the fact, as he considered it was a case in which his dumb friend might be of considerable use. Not content, with the previous denials given by the waiters, he now set about questioning them once more, but got little for his pains. Mr. Scanlan, he learned, had evidently not ascended to his room, for everything was found exactly as the chambermaid had left it in the afternoon. Even his overcoat, which was hung up in the dining-room itself, was left undisturbed. Mickey let "Prince" smell at this for a long time and then went out into the street. Never had such a puzzling case come into his hands. He had absolutely nothing to go upon.

       If it had been on the stage of a theatre, he thought, and Mr. Scanlan had gone through a trap-door, he could not have disappeared more quickly. "But even then people would see him, and there would be no mystery about it — what do you say, 'Prince'?"

       "Prince" winked and looked knowing.

       "I believe you know all about it, you rascal, but are in a humour for gallivanting, and don't want to tell me. Come now, let's see what you're made of. When you lose me anywhere you can find me quickly enough."

       "Prince" at once put his nose to the ground, but, not finding anything of an American smell, crossed to the other side of the street. Mickey followed him, but the search seemed hopeless. He knew the ways of the dog too well to be mistaken now as to his inability to get upon the search of the missing man; so he determined to trust no further to "Prince," but to rely entirely on his own efforts. But, after all, what could he do? He went amongst the cabmen and newslads, as he had done previously on similar occasions, and, although two of the latter had seen the American during the two or three previous days, on the present evening they had not seen anything of him. Nevertheless, Mickey took the two boys into his service, and despatched them in different directions — one towards the Docks, another along Queen-street whilst he himself determined to visit the theatres and music-halls. Not content with the assurance he received at each of these places that no one resembling a tall, long-bearded American had presented himself there, he went personally amongst the audience, and even on to the different stages, sending his sharp eyes in all directions from the wings. But no American could he see, and very few tall men.

       "It seems to me," mused Mickey, "that I am going to make a failure of this; and it would be just like an American to be the cause of my loss of reputation. I don't like Americans; they swear through their nose, and they spit (at least they do so in books), and they think that we in this part of the world are not worthy even to be their servants. And now one of them comes over here to confound Mickey Morgan, to make game of him, and go back to his own country bursting with conceit, because he had puzzled a roomful of people, and defied the cleverest detective in England."

       To do Mickey justice he laughed as he paid this compliment to himself.

       Leaving the Empire, he went to the Queen-street Station, but no one answering to the description of the American had been seen. A like result awaited him at the Great Western Station. He then got into conversation with some of the police, hoping to be able to pick up some hint that might serve him in his perplexity. He was again disappointed, and went back to the hotel, half hoping that in the meantime the missing man had made his appearance. But he found things much in the same way as he had left them. The concert, however, was proceeding at full swing, and through the corridors were echoing the strains of "Who fears to speak of '98," and, if the applause which followed was any indication of the feelings of the assembly, Mr. Scanlan, the American, was now forgotten. Such, however, was not the case, for at every pause in the programme, anxious inquiries were made on all hands.

       Having failed to discover anything outside, our hero now thought of making a thorough search in the hotel itself. Guided by one of the chambermaids, he entered almost every room in the building, but with equally unsuccessful results. Now it occurred to him to enter the concert room once more, and take a view of those inside. The attention of the audience being taken up with other matters, they did not notice him, and Mickey let his eyes wander all round in search of new faces. Having been born in Cardiff he was more or less familiar with the regular faces to be met about the street, and was generally very quick in detecting newcomers.

       There he found one face which struck him as being entirely new, and, what's more, the owner of it was remarkably tall. But he could not be the missing Scanlan, for he wore neither beard nor moustache. Besides, he was evidently familiar with some of the people present, and surely they ought to know who he was. When the applause succeeding one of the songs created some confusion, he took down Mr. Scanlan's coat and carried it with him to a quiet room. Then, allowing Prince a still more intimate acquaintance with that garment, he searched the pockets, and found there something which threw a flood of light on the Scanlan incident.

       Immediately afterwards he returned to the concert room, followed by the dog. Giving a signal to "Prince," he sent him on a scouting expedition amongst the audience. Mickey followed his movements closely with his eyes, and he saw him stop and sniff at the boots and lower garments of the gentleman whose appearance he had noticed previously, and who was really the same who had spoken of himself in the evening as a friend of the missing man. "Prince," having satisfied himself as to the stranger being the owner of the coat, now looked towards his master for further instructions.

       But Mickey had already left the room, and sent a word to Dr. Collins that he wanted to see him.

       On that gentleman appearing, Mickey Morgan hurriedly addressed him.

       "I believe I've found Mr. Scanlan, sir, but I don't know what you will think of him when you know who he is. He has been in the room the whole evening with you."

       "Impossible, my lad! Have you, too, been celebrating St. Patrick's Day?"

       "Not much, sir. But what I tell you is true. He is in the room this very minute. The tall gentleman with the clean-shaven face before the door is he. Here are the whiskers and moustache he wore in the early part of the evening."

       The doctor looked in amazement, and exclaimed:

       "Upon my word, I believe you're right. But I will speak to him."

       Dr. Collins at once entered the concert room, and called the stranger outside.

       "Now, sir," he said. "Mickey Morgan informs me, and, in fact, can prove, that you yourself are Mr. Scanlan. Tell me, is there any reason why I should not make the fact known to our friends."

       "Well, doctor. I owe you and the company an apology. But when you hear the circumstances and the motives which actuated me, I think you will agree that I was justified in taking the course I did. The truth is that whilst in this country I have continually worn a disguise, for I have had reason to know that my connection with a certain society in America is known to the English police, and that they were anxious to get upon my track. Whilst in this room I received a telegram saying that a Scotland Yard man, with a full description of my disguise, has come to Cardiff, and I considered it the safest course to appear at once as my natural self. How could I tell but that my London friend was in the hotel itself at the time."

       "Well, I accept your explanation, Mr. Scanlan, and will simply tell my friends inside that you have been found and send apologies for your sudden disappearance."

       When the audience became aware of the successful issue of our hero's search, they treated him enthusiastically, and thus finished up the St. Patrick Day's Incident.

No. 21. — LOVE AND A TYPEWRITER.

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       Mr. Reginald (and some other letters) Stansland, though fully twenty-five years older than his wife, had never felt the least pang of jealousy. He was not the man to entertain such a sentiment, knowing himself to be more worthy of the attention of his wife than any of his contemporaries. He was a self-made lawyer — that is, he had ascended through the various stages from the rank of office-boy, until he found himself at last a full-fledged lawyer, with an office and business of his own. To do him justice he worked hard, and, though his charges never erred on the side of moderation, he generally managed to satisfy his clients. He was not a man to be ashamed of his humble origin, for any state of life associated with the name of Stansland became, in his opinion, sanctified and ennobled by the fact. His favourite quotation was —

"What merit to he placed on fortune's hill — The honour is to mount it."

And Mr. Stansland, when he saw himself with an income of fifteen hundred pounds a year, considered that if not exactly on the top of the Mount Blanc of fortune he had at least scaled the heights of Snowdon. He had passed his forty-fifth year when he found himself at this elevation; and all at once it dawned upon him that he owed it to his native land, and to posterity to perpetuate on this earth the race of Stansland. For this purpose it would be necessary to take a wife — not somebody else's wife, as someone was reported to have flippantly remarked, but a wife of his own graciously raised to that position from the ranks of spinsterhood by his own strong hand. Having decided that things would go wrong in this world should the race of Stansland die out, he lost no time in seeking for a mate. And now, perhaps for the first time in his life, he, began to feel the short-sightedness of our matrimonial conventionalities. Why should a man like him be allowed only one wife? Why not twenty wives, or as many as the Sultan of Turkey? Just fancy twenty young Stanslands appearing in the world in one year! Or, even if Nature had been more prodigal in her regulations regarding the laws which govern the rate of increase in the human family he would have been more reconciled to modern conventionalities. Even Nature herself did not now please him. But what was the use of speculating? The great thing was that, not being permitted more than one wife, Mr. Stansland would like to see his future wife earn the Queen's Bounty at least once a year. But, oh, irony of fate! The lady he ultimately chose to fill this noble and responsible position towards himself and posterity had allowed three whole years to elapse without anything to show the race of Stansland should not die out. Yet she was strong, good-looking, rosy, and rich. She was also gay and lively, loving balls and parties and concerts and things. Mr. Stansland himself was not much given to such entertainments, but, for all that, he did not scorn to accompany her on some occasions, and was even known to martyrise himself more than once by floundering through some quadrilles and lancers. But, as a rule, he was content to let her "gang her ain gait" under the wing of some neighbouring lady or accompanied by one of her brothers.

       As we have said, he was not jealous of her — at least, not till one fatal morning, when, in apparent mistake, he opened a type-written letter which he afterwards found was intended for his wife. She was sitting before him at the breakfast table when he opened it. He had travelled a little on the Continent, and had acquired a pretty habit of swearing in foreign tongues, which, while relieving his feelings, did not shock his auditors. He stared at the letter in dumb, horrified, amazement. Then he looked at the envelope. Oh, there could be no mistake. The address was plain enough —

Mrs. Stansland,
	Craig Wen,
	Penarth.

Was ever such horrible infamy known? The one woman whom he had chosen from amongst all the world, to be the mother of future Stanslands, had not only disappointed him in that respect, but had evidently given her love to some sneaking fellow who employed a typewriter to copy his leters, or, worse than all, was a typist himself. It was at this point that it occurred to Mr. Stansland to swear. He rose to his feet, and, with admirable impartiality, emitted a string of curses in half-a-dozen foreign languages. Sacre bleu! mill demonios! Der Teufel were amongst the mildest, and then, of a sudden becoming a Saxon and a soliloquist, he broke out:—

       "D—–n it all, can this be true?"

       His wife looked up with a half-alarmed, half-quizzical expression, on her face.

       "Why you're swearing in English, Reginald. Can what be true?"

       He was about to hand over the letter to her; but thought better of it, urging to himself that it would be weakness to show his wife that anything in connection with her could make him so far forget himself as to swear, as the newspapers print it, with a d and a dash and an n. No; his unworthy wife should be made to feel that he was a strong man, who could meet calamity, domestic and otherwise, face to face, and rise superior to it. He would first of all find out who was this mysterious "Jack," who so confidently anticipated his early demise, and when he met him man to man — but the practice of drilling had gone out of vogue and — he would see.

       But if Mr. Stansland had motives of his own for not allowing his wife to see this mysterious letter, that is no reason why the reader should be left any longer in the dark regarding it.

       "My own dearest Maud," it began: "I hasten to tell you that after all I shall be at the ball to-night, and shall once again be able to encircle in my arms the divine form of my sweet one. You must keep all the waltzes for me, Maud; for it would drive me mad to see you in the arms of another. I suppose Reginald Alphabet Stansland will not be there? Oh, how I wish, my darling, that we had met before you were linked to him — how happy our life should be! But you, alas! are tied down by conventionality to a self-sufficient, pompous mass of self-conceit, who in his anxiety for being the father of future Stanslands neglects and despises her whom it ought to be his greatest privilege to love. But, never mind, my dear — there is balm in Gilead — and I notice that Don Bombastes seems to be putting on flesh rapidly. When men of his type begin to assume the globular shape, in nine cases out of ten, they take up fatty degeneration of the heart, and when least expected, and, perhaps, most desired, go off on an exploring expedition to another world. So courage, my love. Though, like the girl in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' you can truly say, 'Methinks I was enamoured of an ass, you have now awakened from your dream, and can see the length of his ears. I venture to send this letter to your house, as, not expecting to hear from me, you would probably not receive it, should I address it to the old place. Until to-morrow night, then, my Maud, yours always,

       With a great effort, Mr. Stansland sat down again to the breakfast table, and, by way of showing the kind of man he was, ordered another pair of eggs, at the same time remarking pleasantly to his wife:—

       "I have an atrocious appetite this morning. I believe I could manage a chop as well as the eggs."

       "Shall I order you a chop?" asked his wife calmly.

       "No, better not. It would probably leave me without an appetite for dinner. By the way, my dear. I think I shall have to go out of town this evening, though I had half a mind to go to the ball."

       "Oh, do come, Reginald. It is quite a shame to let me go always alone."

       "Not alone, my dear, there will be Mrs. Morris, and then you know — Jack."

       "Jack? Whom do you mean?"

       "Why, your brother, of course, Who else?"

       "But you have never called him Jack before?"

       "Haven't I? Well, he shall be Jack in future. It looks so much less formal than John. Don't you like the name?"

       "Oh, I have no objection to it, but none of us have ever called my brother, Jack — and I don't think he would like it."

       "The jade," thought Stansland; "she wants no one to he called Jack but HIM."

       The fresh supply of eggs by this time appeared. The sight of them almost turned him sick. But with a rapacious air he transferred them to his plate; and then, making a sudden start, looked at his watch and got up from the table with a bound.

       "Good gracious. I have a most important appointment, and forgot all about it. I am a quarter of an hour late already."

       By this subterfuge he avoided the necessity of partaking of the obnoxious eggs, and quickly left the house.

       When the door had closed behind him, his wife remarked to herself:

       "I'm sure he must have received some bad news in that letter; I never saw him look so before."

       Evening came; and, accompanied by her brother, Mrs. Stansland went to the ball. She did not, of course, expect her husband there, but he came all the same, and quietly ensconced himself in an ante-room, from which vantage ground he was able to see most of what passed in the ball. His eyes never lost sight of his wife's movements, but, he was not a little surprised to find that. instead of allowing herself to be monopolised by any particular Jack, she divided her favours equally amongst certain gentlemen of her acquaintance, all of them wall-known to himself. As far as he could remember, not one of them was known as Jack.

       "It must be that he has not turned up, after all," he thought, "and how innocent she looks, the deceitful jade! But, upon my soul, she is the handsomest woman in the room. I can see it now that she's lost to me. I believe I should rather have her, childless and all, than any other woman in the world. But, my God, what have I to face — divorce and shame?"

       The ball came to an end without the least thing happening to arouse the suspicions of the now extremely jealous Reginald Stansland. Just as his wife and her brother were about to leave, he sauntered into the room.

       "Oh. Reginald," she said, "so you are back after all. I am so glad. But what a pity you did not come earlier. It is so long since we have had a dance together."

       "Oh, what did that matter? Hadn't you, Jack?"

       "Jack!" exclaimed his brother-in-law to himself; "can he possibly suspect?"

       Openly, however, he inquired who Jack was.

       "Why, yourself, of course — who else could it be?"

       As he spoke he looked keenly at his wile, but she was all unconscious. The three went home together, and the most miserable day in Reginald Stansland's life came to an end.

       He was down before his wife in the morning, and took possession of the letters. Amongst them he found another typewritten epistle addressed to his wife. He did not hesitate to open it. The terms employed were still more endearing than in the previous letter. One passage vexed his soul even more than the familiarity with which his wife was addressed:

       "You will wonder, dearest, why after my letter to you, I kept away from the ball. But the truth >s I did get to the ball, but a friend who knows my penchant for yourself warned me that Don Bombastes was playing the spy in an ante-room. I dared not venture then to let him see us together, so went home. Does he suspect anything?"

       Mr. Stansland did not wait to confront his wife that morning. Neither did he think of breakfast, but went at once to consult Mickey Morgan.

       "Look here, my lad, I am going to repose great confidence in you. You must find out for me the writer of these letters."

       Mr. Stansland was thoroughly agitated, and went away without another word.

       Mickey read the letters over, and fixed his line of action. He first consulted a friend of his who knew the different kinds of machine, and learned that the letters had been written on a Densmore. Then he went to the representative of that company, and after much persuasion got a list of the firms who were using this class of typewriter in Cardiff. It was a very formidable list; but after eliminating a large number of "impossibles" he brought down the number of suspected machines down to something like half a dozen. It disconcerted him to find that not one of the owners — the supposed Lotharios — was called Jack, but after all that fact mattered little, as a man might easily change his name in carrying on an illicit correspondence. Mickey fixed upon an ingenious plan of discovering at least the machine on which the compromising letters had been written. He naturally concluded that the correspondence would not be likely to cease; and on one pretext or another getting access to the six suspected machines, with a tiny watchmaker's file, he made such marks on some of the letters as would be sure to show in the writing. In one case he marked an "a," in another an "e," and so on. Another letter came into Mr. Stansland's hands, but Mickey Morgan was disappointed to find that all of the suspected machines were innocent. He looked through his list again, and a strange idea struck him.

       A few days later another note came for Mrs. Stansland, and was intercepted by her husband. The writer complained that she had not answered any of his recent notes, and asked her in desperation to meet him. When Mickey saw the letter, he broke into a hearty laugh.

       "Sacre bleu," said Mr. Stansland, "what are you laughing at?"

       "Excuse me, sir: but it is a good joke. Someone that you know very well has been humbugging you; and your wife has no more a lover than I have."

       "Explain, please, quickly," said Stansland, with the light of hope in his eyes.

       "Well, sir, it is her own brother who has written these letters to your wife. He wanted to make you jealous, I suppose, in order that you might love her a little more."

       "How do you know?"

       "Do you see all these r's, sir? There is a corner off each one. Now, I filed that corner off the 'r' on your brother-in-law's machine three days ago, and, without a doubt, the letter has been written by him."

       So it proved. Mr. John Hilyard, the brother-in-law, did not deny the fact.

       "You treated your young wife like an ass, Stansland, and I thought the best way to bring you to your senses was to make you jealous."

       "You succeeded, John, and, per bacchi, I believe you are right. Henceforward I shall attend all the balls and parties held within a radius of ten miles of Cardiff."

       Mr. Stansland kept his word. The dancing exercise has done away with the tendency to embonpoint, and he looks years younger than he did when married. His wife is now perfectly happy, but, as she is the mother of two vigorous young Stanslands, she is beginning to think that dancing is a very frivolous exercise, and ought to be avoided by ladies in her responsible position.

No. 22. — A RAILWAY MYSTERY.

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       Several train robberies had been committed in or near Barwell Tunnel, but, though the railway companies had employed some of their smartest detectives in the matter, the robber or robbers could never be found. Barwell, as our readers know, is a considerable distance from Cardiff, yet a great deal of interest was felt in the Welsh capital in these mysterious doings. For one thing, a well-known citizen had been one of the victims, and besides, as the newspapers gave up considerable space to the robberies, the name of Darnell Tunnel became famous from one end of the country to the other. When Mr. Ellis Lewson, of somewhere near the Roath Park, was robbed of his purse, the people who knew him wondered, for Ellis was not considered the man to he caught sleeping even by the most skilful robber in the country. There was not very much sympathy felt for Mr. Lewson. He was altogether too fond of the bawbees; and those Cariffians who knew him declared, in all uncharitableness, that it served him right. We should not like to be guilty of imputing a want of proper Christian feeling to the Rev. Jonas Simpkins, of Mount Paradise Chapel, but we have been informed that when he heard that Mr. Lewson had been robbed of more than two hundred pounds he ejaculated, "Thanks be to God" as piously as he would have said grace after a particularly good meal. Perhaps we should not blame Mr. Simpkins too much. Only a few days before he had almost gone on his knees to Mr. Lewson, imploring him to grant even a small contribution towards the fund for the renovation of the chapel. But he was refused, and, however much Mr. Simpkins might preach about the necessity of wishing well to one's enemies, he could not be expected to have very tender feeling towards enemies of Mount Paradise Chapel. At any rate, he said, "Thanks be to God" on hearing the news.

       But a worse case than that of Mr. Lewson occurred, and one which had the effect of rousing deep sympathy for the victim amongst all Cardiff folk. Mrs. Elward, returning from the funeral of her husband, which took place in a northern town, was robbed of a bag containing upwards of three hundred pounds in gold and notes, representing all the money she had in the world. Her husband had been ailing for many years and unable to follow his business, with the result that all his earnings disappeared in necessary expenses and unproductive doctors' bills. Just when things had come to the worst Mr. Elward died, and the three hundred pounds of which the poor widow had been robbed represented the total amount of his insurance money. Her own account of the affair was this. Her niece and herself occupied a second-class carriage to themselves, and got along their journey without encountering anything in the least suspicious until the train entered the Barwell tunnel and had slowed up a bit. Then their door opened, and a man dressed in the uniform of a railway-guard entered, and demanded their tickets. These having been shown, he withdrew, and a minute afterwards the train emerged into the open. Almost immediately Mrs. Elward missed her bag, though she was confident she had seen it just before the guard had entered the carriage. She had not the sense or presence of mind to pull the communicating cord and summon the guard; and could say nothing about her loss until the train had stopped at the next station some ten miles distant from the tunnel. Then, when the rear guard came to her she saw at once that he was not the man who had a short time before demanded to see her ticket. The stationmaster came, and when he heard the particulars, and saw from the woman's distress that her loss had been real, he burst into an energetic imprecation against the company's detectives. But swearing could do little to remedy poor Mrs. Elward's loss, and she landed in Cardiff with less than a sovereign in her pocket. This sum was very poor capital on which to begin the task of keeping and educating three young children, and, as we hive said, much public sympathy was aroused on her behalf. The railway company was approached and asked to do something for her, but the only thing they could promise was to strain every effort to discover the robber, and if possible make him restore the money. The company had made similar promises before, and the public had very little confidence in its ability to get at the bottom of the affair. The Rev. Mr. Simpkins, who display so little sympathy with Mr. Lewson, was much concerned for Mrs. Elward. She was a member of his chapel, and in other respects was worthy of the charity and interest of her neighbours. In short, Mr. Simpkins set about raising a public subscription on her behalf, and for a time forgot even the piteous cry of the Mount Paradise Chapel for renovation. In this he was supported by many prominent local men, and the widow saw herself in a fair way of receiving from a generous public a larger sum than the £300 of which she had been robbed. But the subscription committee were not content with relieving Mrs. Elward. They set about doing that which the railway company had failed to do — they would find the robber.

       Mickey Morgan was at this time at the height of his fame, and it was suggested that he should be sent to Barwell to investigate the robberies. Of course, the committee's object was to recover the stolen money or to punish the robber, but in investigating one case they were investigating all. Even the railway company were kept in ignorance of their intention, and Mickey, taking his ticket as an ordinary passenger, went up to Barwell. The nearest station was about two miles away, and there he got out and took up lodgings at an inn for the night. As he had anticipated, the question of the robberies came up for discussion during the evening, but Mickey was not helped in the least by this — there were as many opinions as individuals in the room.

       Early next morning he walked up to the Barwell Tunnel, with a view studying the ground and seeing if any such local peculiarities existed would help the robbers in leaving the train.

       At the south entrance he could discover nothing calculated to help him in his investigation, but on the northern side the first thing he caught sight of was a very huge elm tree, some of the branches of which overhung the line itself. Trees in themselves are not generally regarded with suspicion, but Mickey Morgan remembered that in the case of the abduction of Harry Simmons a tree played a very important part. Yet how could one of these useful products of nature affect the present case. He walked about a little to meditate, and then in an absent-minded way threw himself down on the hank.

       "The one thing I have to go upon," he thought, "is that all the robberies have been committed in the neighbourhood. That being so, there must be some reason why the robber or robbers have so circumscribed their operations. Why not have chosen some still more lonely place, twenty, thirty, or forty miles from here? Clearly this particular locality lends itself in some way to the commission of such outrages. Is it that the robber lives in the neighbourhood? Probably not; for robbers, as a rule, prefer to select their ground of operations in districts where they are not known. Neither can this be a general rule, for cases have been known where men so apparently respectable in their own neighbourhood that no one thought of suspecting them have in reality been very clever robbers. Still, in a little place like this the chances are that all the inhabitants are old residents. Whether it is so or not, I must soon find out, but just now I will have a look about this tree." Though some of the branches overhung the railway line, the tree itself belonged to a field abutting on the line. Crouching down at the roots he began to examine the ground carefully, and was rewarded by seeing several footmarks, as well as some partly obliterated indentations, which he took to be the marks left by a ladder. Then he ascended the tree itself and crawled along the branches overhanging the line. There could be no doubt about it — plainly shown on the leading branch were the marks of a rope, as if it had been tied in two places, one indention being about eight feet from the other. He had seen all he wanted for the moment, and quickly descended to the ground.

       "Now," thought Mickey, "two ropes have been suspended from that tree, or one rope tied at both ends and let down in a loop. For what purpose? I wonder would it be possible for anyone standing on the footboards of a train to snatch at a rope so suspended, and swing himself into safety? I should think so, but he would have to be a trained athlete, Mickey set himself once more to examine the ground, and, after some close observations, was able to trace footmarks going in the direction of a neighbouring hill. If there was a house about there he was yet unable to say, but a walk of a mile showed him a farm house cosily situated at the other side of the hill. He did not wait to see any more, but returned at once to his inn. He had brought with him an old suit of ragged clothes, which he considered might come in useful should it be necessary to adopt any disguise. Waiting till nightfall, he set out in the direction of the farm house, and in his ragged habiliments presented himself at the door. In a whining tone he asked the lady of the house if she could let him have a little bread. The good woman at once took pity on the lad and asked him in. Bringing Mickey a lump of bread and a bowl of milk, she asked him what in the world he was doing in that lonely place. Mickey made up a story about tramping up to the North to find some relatives, as both his father and mother were dead. This latter statement was true enough, and it impressed the good housewife not a little.

       "And where do you sleep, my boy?"

       "Anywhere I can find, ma'am; sometimes in a hay-stack, sometimes in a barn. One or two farmers have been kind enough to give me work for a day or two so that I have earned a shilling or two on the way. In one place I worked four days for my food, and was very glad to get it."

       The result of Mickey's conversation with the good lady was that she promised to interest herself on his behalf with her husband, and find some employment for him. This was all he wanted. As soon as the farmer came in his wife explained the state of affairs to him. He seemed a good-natured kind of fellow, and at once agreed to the proposal. After Mickey had observed him a little, he had to come to the conclusion that he did not in the least resemble a robber. But he determined, for all that, to take up his residence at the farm until such time as he discovered something in connection with the robberies, or found there was nothing to be discovered. Before retiring to bed he got into conversation with a servant girl and learned that there was a gentleman from London who passed a good deal of his time at the farm-house for the benefit of his health. He often ran down there, and passed a week or a fortnight at once. He wanted to be away from the sight of chimneys and the smell of smoke, he said.

       "How long is it since he was here last?" asked Mickey.

       "Why, he is here now, and has been for more than a fortnight."

       "But I have not seen him."

       "No; he's out walking in the fields, but will be back shortly."

       In a few minutes Mr. shorter, for such was the gentleman's name, made his appearance. He stared rather closely at our hero and asked the servant nonchalantly who he was.

       "Oh, a poor boy, who is going up North to find his relatives."

       "Hum; I hope you'll find them all in good health, my lad."

       Mickey could not say that the newcomer either presented much the appearance of a robber, but for all that he did not like him.

       Three days passed, and the young detective could not find anything to assist him in his search.

       One evening, as Mickey was reading the daily papers. he came across an item regarding a well-known American millionaire who was travelling in England. He had lately been "doing" South Wales, and was expected to go North in a day or two.

       "Who is Mr. Chicago?" asked Mickey, in the presence of the Londoner. "I see he will be passing here in a day or so. They make as much fuss about him as if he were a king."

       Mr. Shorter took the paper from his hand and read over the paragraph, returning it, however, without comment.

       Every night before the passing of the express train Mickey managed to find himself in the neighbourhood of the tunnel, but not until the evening when the Great American was to pass did he notice anything unusual. On this occasion he found a looped rope dangling from the big branch of the tree.

       The Londoner had left the house about three hours before our hero, but where he had gone to no one seemed to know. It now only wanted half an hour to train time so he would have had no time to go in search of a constable; and he knew it would be impossible for him to cope with the robber without assistance should it indeed transpire that his suspicion proved correct. He waited on patiently. In due time he heard the rumble of the approaching train coming slowly through the tunnel. Hiding himself behind a bush he waited events. The engine emerged from its subterranean passage; there was a man on the footboards of one of the carriages. He saw him throw out both hands as he passed the rope, and the next moment was swinging in the air. Then he dropped quietly to the ground, undid a knot in the rope, pulled it from the tree, and went directly in the direction of the farmhouse.

       Mickey did not want follow him. He ran to the village, showed his credentials to the constable, and in an hour after Mr. Shorter was arrested.

       Mrs. Elward got back her £300, and was besides presented with a good part of the sum raised on her behalf — the balance was given to Mickey Morgan.

No. 23. — THE AINSLIE POISONING CASE.

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       Mr. William Ainslie kept a public-house in one of the villages towards the top of the Rhondda Valley. He was neither popular with the public nor his own family. He was, in fact, eccentric, and, probably, on that account, sold good beer and spirits. Fortunately for the public, they were in a position to set him at defiance, and, though they liked his liquids, were always anxious to avoid him. It is on record that once or twice he was seen in a cheerful humour, but the public at large refused to give any credence to this statement. Certainly his appearance in the bar was always enough to put an end to geniality amongst his customers. This deference to his personality was supposed to please him. At any rate, he has been known to refuse to serve beer to customers who in his august presence had presumed to talk in loud tones. Strangers, of course, of Falstaffian tendencies could not see the necessity of repressing their natural exuberance merely because the landlord was of a hypochondriac and dyspeptic disposition.

       "I love to take mine ease at mine inn," said one of these one night, "and I won't be put to silence by all the ghouls m creation."

       "This is not your inn, sir; 'tis mine; and, by Gad, I'll have no fair showman's bellowing here," thundered Ainslie.

       "This is my inn, sir," answered the stranger, "and as long as I behave myself I insist on being served by the man or his servants, who, by permission of Parliament, is allowed to keep this house for my special benefit."

       Ainslie was thunderstruck. This was the first time for years that anyone had dared to beard him in his own den.

       "If it is your inn, will you please walk out of it?" he answered, with fire burning in his eyes.

       "I want a bottle of Bass, landlord, and please be as quick as you can about it, for I am consumed with a terrible thirst."

       "Go out, sir."

       "That bottle of Bass, landlord; that Bass I pray thee. Whence this delay, mine host? Dost thou not know that it is the privilege of an Englishman to be well and quickly served by the public servants? By my troth, but the knave waxes slow."

       The stranger, who was able to see at a glance the character of Ainslie, knew that a conflict was inevitable, and he adopted this style of address, as much with a view of irritating him as to give himself the appearance of being a cool, good-tempered individual. Still, the Bass did not come, and mine host stood boiling with wrath, but doubtful as to the particular kind of punishment he should mete out to the impertinent stranger.

       "Odds, life, landlord, dost fancy that my father's son can brook this tardiness? Hadst thou to deal with my worthy grand sire, Sir Hal, thy head had by this time been adorning a trencher. A Bass I say."

       Mrs. Ainslie, who had been a silent witness of this scene, now came forward, bringing with her the desired beverage, but before she could place it before the stranger Ainslie snatched it brutally from her hands and ordered her to leave the bar. The poor woman blushed painfully, but went directly from the room.

       The stranger seemed to he somewhat affected by the humiliation the landlord had thus publicly put upon his wife, and anyone noticing his eyes might have seen a steely glitter there which might easily serve as a warning to the wise rot to provoke him. Putting off his jocose air, he now directed himself once more to the landlord.

       "These gentleman can bear witness that I have several times already asked for a bottle of beer. I now repeat the order — am I to be served?"

       Ainslie answered doggedly that he would get no beer in his house.

       "Serve the gentleman, Ainslie, and don't make yourself such a d—– fool," said one of the company.

       "If you don't it will be so much the worse for yourself," said another.

       "That man gets no drink in my house, and for the third time I order him to leave my premises."

       "I will only leave when compelled by force, and the man who lays a hand on me before the hour of eleven o'clock will answer to the magistrates for assault."

       There was so much of dignity and authority in the gentleman's voice that Ainslie, who was a coward at heart, felt cowed, and sullenly left the room. He was followed immediately by one of the other occupants, who explained to him the awkward position in which his refusal might land him. Very soon after the bottle of Bass was brought in by a servant girl. Then the stranger, after paying for the drink, said, "You may take it away now, my girl. I wished simply to assert my right of ordering refreshments in this house: but, as, for drinking anything beneath the roof of a man who can so shame his wife in public, I would scorn to do it. I am not speaking to you, my girl, but to these gentlemen, and your master, who is listening behind the door. Take the Bass to him or drink it yourself. Good evening, gentlemen."

       The stranger left the house, and the girl went through the bar to the kitchen, stopping for a moment to speak to a young man who whispered to her over the counter. It was the girl's intention to drink the beer, but Mr. Ainslie, who did not believe in such waste, took the glass from her and emptied it himself. Almost immediately he was seized with terrible pains, and before a doctor could arrive he was dead. Fortunately, the glass from which he had drunk remained unwashed, and the doctor was able to satisfy himself that the portion of liquid remaining contained arsenic. Who had put the poison in the glass? Why, in the opinion of all, none other than the stranger, who, after paying for the beer, had refused to drink it. But what motive could he have? Well, that remained to seen.

       The police were soon put into possession of the event of the evening, and at once began a search for the stranger.

       That night, at any rate, passed without any trace of him being found. The newspapers the following morning, devoted considerable space to the case, and gave a more or less accurate description of the mysterious stranger.

       Amongst those who read the accounts of Ainslie's death or murder was Mr. James Hartwood, lately of South Africa, and at present domiciled in Cardiff. The news dumbfounded him; he could scarcely believe it. Surely it could not be true? It was merely some hoax got up by the newspapers — newspapers were always inventing things and uninventing them; begetting and unbegetting; one thing to-day, another to-morrow. But in the reading-room of this hotel he found four or five dailies, and each of them contained news of Ainslie's death. Surely the devil was in all this. Why had he come and why, above all, did his curiosity drive him up to that infernal public-house in the valley? His cousin Mary, with whom he used to romp as a youngster, was the wife of the landlord, and he wanted to see her and talk over old times. She would not know him; as a matter of fact, she had not known him, and he saw her so wretchedly placed with a brutal husband that out of pure consideration for her feelings he did not make himself known.

       The fact of being Mrs. Ainslie's cousin would tell terribly against him; and he could see the gallows looming in the distance. What should he do now? Give himself up to the police, or fly the country? It was hard to decide. But, after all, why should he give himself up to the hangman? None of his relatives knew of his presence in England; and, having committed no crime, why should he run the risk of suffering in place of somebody else? He would not do it — he would return to South Africa at once, and never show his face in England again. But that was easier said than done. The police were on the lookout for him, and, unless he shaved off his beard or adopted some disguise, the chances were that he would be pounced on at once. He remained in his room the whole day; but when night came he shaved off the beard, leaving only an aggressive kind of moustache, which now looked far larger than when in of company with the more luxuriant growth of the chin. Mr. Hartwood had not been to the diamond mines for nothing. He had plenty of money, so did not trouble himself much about the luggage he would have to leave at the hotel. His bill was already paid, so he had only to go quietly away, and leave no trace behind him.

       Leaving the hotel without having been particularly noticed by anybody, he went to a shop and bought a bicycle. He considered the bike would provide him with the surest way of leaving town unobserved — much safer than running the gauntlet of sharp-eyed detectives at the railway station.

       Mr. James Hartwood was now a transformed man. He would scarcely know himself were it not for the bronze of the South African sun on his face. He was fond of bicycling, and when he found himself skimming along the road with a fresh breeze in his face his spirits revived, and he felt so full of courage and exhilaration that he even thought of returning and giving himself up to the police. But then he once more realised the possible issue of such a course, and he went on his way. He decided to ride to Fishguard, from which port he would, doubtless, be able to get a tramp steamer to somewhere. It mattered little where he went to at first, as long as he got out of England.

       But his speculations came to an untimely end. He was arrested at the very first hiding-place. One of the waiters at the hotel, of whom he had asked some questions in respect to the Rhondda, had been struck with the similarity between him and the description of the mysterious stranger. He communicated his suspicions to the police. Scarcely had Hartwood left his room at the hotel when a detective officer entered. Peering about he soon came across evidences of somebody having recently shaved off a long beard there, and at once divined that the bird had flown. A little time after he was able to get upon the trail of the fugitive, learned of the purchase of the bicycle, and sent wires up and down in all directions.

       The morning alter James Hartwood was examined before the magistrates. In spite of the transformation in his appearance, several gentlemen were able to recognise him as the stranger who had had the altercation with the late Mr. Ainslie. He did not deny it. Indeed, he gave a very candid account of himself, and favourably impressed some of his listeners. But the general feeling was against him. To start with, it seemed such a mad, unaccountable thing for a man to fall out with Bill Ainslie over a bottle of beer he did not want. And if the stranger had not put in the arsenic who else could have done so. No; it was plain enough, he was vexed with the man for the way in which he had treated his wife, and, on a sudden impulse, having the arsenic by some chance in his pocket, determined to put an end to him. Who could tell, indeed, if Hartwood was not in love with his cousin?

       The examination was adjourned. The prisoner had employed one of the smartest solicitors in Cardiff to work on his behalf, and the first thing this gentleman did was to call in Mickey Morgan to his assistance.

       Our hero at once transferred himself to the Rhondda, and set to work. He managed to get an interview with the prisoner, from whom he obtained a clearer account of the occurrences of the fatal evening than he had been able to glean from the published reports. Mickey, of course, had to start with the assumption that his client was innocent. As a matter of fact, such was his opinion; but, even had he been convinced of his guilt, he would still have to endeavour to prove him innocent. He spent a whole morning in the public house, keeping a close eye on the inmates, and watching all who passed in and out. No one knew him to be a detective, and the poisoning case was freely discussed in his presence.

       More than two years had elapsed since we first presented Mickey Morgan to the reader, and he had now passed his seventeenth birthday. The extraordinary experience through which he had passed had given him a greater knowledge of the world than is possessed by many men twice his age, and a good thing it proved Mr. James Hartwood that such was the case. In his intercourse with the inmates of the house, Mickey Morgan noticed a circumstance which gave him a clue that put him on the track of the real murderer.

       From the beginning he had thought that if there was a design to poison anybody the servant must have been the intended victim. It was to the servant that Hartwood had returned the beer, and she was actually carrying it to the kitchen when intercepted by the landlord.

       Now the circumstance that Mickey noticed was that this poor girl was enciente, and, such being the case. there was somebody to blame and somebody interested in getting her out of the way. Who that person was Mickey set himself at once to find out. To the girl he directed himself first. He was a very good-looking young fellow, and girls of all kinds liked to talk to him. Sally Jones was no exception. Even with all the trouble hanging round herself and the house she lived in she would yet find spirits to chat a little with a bright boy like Mickey Morgan. When they had talked a bit he suddenly asked her:—

       "Did you know anyone who was in the bar that night?"

       "Yes; I think I knew the whole of them."

       "Did you know anyone of them more than the rest — had you any special particular friend amongst them?"

       Sally blushed and looked a little taken aback.

       "Why do you ask?"

       "Well, look here, Sally, I am asking this question for your own particular good, and do you see these two sovereigns? Well, you can have them if you tell me the name of the special friend who was there that night — did you speak to him?"

       "Yes just a word. He leaned over the bar and whispered to me. What he said I will not tell you."

       "No matter. Had you the beer in your hands at the time?"

       "I put it down on the counter for a moment."

       "All right. Now tell me his name, what's his occupation, and where he lives — here are the two sovereigns."

       "His name is Harry Jevons; he is a chemist's assistant, and works at 49, Moriand-street."

       This was all Mickey wanted to know at present. He went to the chemist's shop, bought one or two trifling articles, keeping a scrutinising eye on the assistant all the time. Then he quietly asked if he could have a small portion of arsenic. The assistant turned pale, and said that such an article could only be supplied through a doctor's certificate.

       "But I assure you I want it for quite an innocent purpose. I have no desire to kill anyone. No unfortunate girl to put out of the way —–"

       The man behind the counter almost collapsed, and withdrew to the back room. A little later Mickey interviewed a man who was standing near the counter that night. He remembered Jevons leaning over to the girl, and was certain that one of his hands was touching the glass at the time.

       By the next train Mr. Hartwood's solicitor came up from Cardiff, and very soon after a warrant for the arrest of Harry Jevons was issued. Mickey went with the officer who was to effect the arrest, but scarcely had they entered the shop when the assistant, nervously seizing a phial, swallowed a quantity of some liquid, and the next moment fell down dead.

       Mr. Hartwood was released the same day "without a stain on his character," and, accompanied by our hero returned to his hotel at Cardiff.

No. 24. — A RUNAWAY MARRIAGE.

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       The greatest fault that Ada Ailsmore could be accused of was a too great fondness for the romantic. Modern ways and modern customs did not please her. Neither did modern young men — at any rate, the kind of young men one meets every day in Queen-street or St. Mary-street. To her great regret she had never been brought into social intercourse with military men — that is, real fighting men, for yeomen and Volunteer officers she looked upon as mere toy soldiers. She had read a good deal about war, ancient and modern, and, if there was one thing that could redeem this prosaic age in her eyes, it was the doings, of the men who fought for our flag in India and Africa.. But she would have liked to see a great European war; to have to go to bed at night with the feeling that before morning the French might be bombarding Cardiff. And then, above all, she would like to have a lover amongst its defenders, a brave young knight, who, whilst performing prodigies of valour had his mind always tilled with thoughts of herself. She was a good-looking girl — some ordinary prosaic young men called her beautiful — but she gave herself no airs on that account, treating all such work-a-day individuals with an aloofness which showed that her thoughts were far away from them. She had never been in love; had never seen anyone whom >he thought she could love. Though possessing a considerable fortune, she lived very simply — too simply, indeed, to please her mother, who loved all kinds of gaiety, and, who, if she had her own way, would never, except when the house was full of guests, pass an evening at her own fireside. Ada, on the contrary, preferred one of Sir Walter Scott's novels to any pleasure to he extracted from a Cardiff ball-room. She did, indeed, like the theatre — that is when anything in the shape of an old romantic drama or picturesque opera were presented. But modern melodrama and modern problem plays were her abhorrence. Her mother wanted her to live in London, where she was sure her good looks and fortune would secure her a distinguished place in society, but to this Ada would never consent. From her room she commanded a view of the sea, and, as she sat at her window on a summer evening, it was her pleasure to people the ocean before her with friendly and hostile men-of-war. She even hoped that one day her dream would become a reality, and that from her elevation she would he able to hear the roar of cannon and watch the movements of contending fleets below. We have said that she had never been in love, but this state of things could not always last. One Sunday as she was sitting at her window a new sensation entered her heart: she became thrilled with new emotions, and on instant fell violently in love. Yet there was no one in the room at the time: neither could she see a single individual outside. But for all that she fell in love, and, oh, if her mother knew, with a sergeant in a cavalry regiment. She had never seen the man, but he had done great deeds, and had just received the Victoria Cross from the hands of his Sovereign. She had a portrait of him in the illustrated paper in her hands; he was young, good-looking, and, as the papers stated, of a good family, that had come down in the world through extravagances. His name, too, was romantic — Gerald Desmond — and fitted in with the deeds he had done. Where had she heard the name of Desmond before? Ah, yes; she remembered, it was in some song or piece of poetry and referred to a place not a man:—

"Wildly o'er Desmond the war-wolf is howling, Fiercely the eagle sweeps o'er the plain; The fox in the streets of the city is prowling. All, all who would scare him are banished or slain."

She could not remember any more, but the words seemed to have appropriate connection with the hero who had just risen up in her life.

       She resolved to have her doubts set at rest at once, and who so fit to help her in her trouble as the boy-man who had assisted so many of her sex before. She sat down at once and wrote a letter to Mr. Norman, asking him to send Mickey Morgan to her the following morning. That night she could not sleep; she paced her room for hours; looked out into the cloudy darkness and saw Gerald Desmond's handsome face floating about outside her window. About five o'clock, in sheer weariness, she threw herself on her bed, and for a few minutes fell into a dreamy sleep. She saw her hero turn round as he missed his comrade from his side; put his horse against the heights; charge into a score of tribesmen; scatter death on all sides; lift his fallen comrade from the ground, and, cutting his way once more through the enemy, re-join his battalion oil the plains below. The vociferous cheers of his admiring companions wakened her, and she did not attempt to sleep again.

       About ten o'clock Mickey Morgan's card was handed in, and a moment after he was shown into her room.

       "Mr. Morgan," she said, "I have heard a great deal of you, and know that you are to be thoroughly trusted. But of all the queer cases in which you have figured, I believe you will consider mine to be the most curious. I don't want you to consider me mad, or anything of that kind, but simply to help me in carrying out what I have made up my mind to do."

       "I shall do all in my power, Miss."

       "I am sure you will, but when I tell you what I want don't look surprised, or look at me curiously, or try to dissuade me from my object."

       "I will simply listen."

       "Then look at this portrait. It is that of a soldier named Gerald Desmond. I have never seen him, and don't even know where he is stationed, but all the same I have made up my mind to marry him. That is, of course, if there is no obstacle in the way. Now I have plenty of money, and you can have as much as you need, but I want you to find out all about this Mr. Desmond, and if you think he is a worthy fellow, with no encumbrance in the way of sweetheart or wife, you must bring about an accidental meeting between us. Accidental, mind you. He is never to hear a word of me; he is not, above all, to know my object, and even I myself must be kept in ignorance of the steps you are taking to carry out my desires."

       "Would it not be better if I were to report to you first, miss, what kind of man I find him to be?"

       "No, I leave the matter to your judgment. I am head over ears in love with him, and desire to be his wife if, in your own opinion, he is a decent kind of a fellow. That he is brave, everyone in this world and a few in the next know."

       "All right, miss, I shall do all I can in the matter."

       "When do you start?"

       "This very day. Fortunately, I have no particular case on hand just now, so I can devote the whole of my time to your affairs."

       "Mr. Morgan, you are a charming young man, and I shall insist on your being best man at the wedding."

       "Tell me, miss, am I to tell Mr. Norman what you have told me?"

       "Oh, good gracious, no. Tell him anything you like except the truth."

       "All right, miss; good morning."

       "Stop, there is one thing you forget. Take this purse. You will find enough there to pay all preliminary expenses, even should you be obliged to get a special licence."

       "Well, now," mused Mickey, when he had got outside, "of all the queer girls I ever came across she is certainly the queerest. Just fancy falling madly in love with a man she has never seen! Well, its nothing to me; I only hope for her sake that he will turn out a decent sort of chap, for she is realty a. lovely girl."

       After due inquiries our hero found that Desmond's regiment was stationed at Southampton, and thither he transferred himself that same evening. He had now got to an age when it did not seem extraordinary in him to be seen with a bottle of beer before him. He walked around the old town for a bit, and then, seeing a sergeant enter a well-known public-house, "Above Bar," he followed him in. To get into conversation with even a non-commissioned officer in her Majesty's forces is never a difficult matter, and Mickey and the sergeant were soon on familiar terms. The conversation drifted to the subject of the recent campaign and, of course, the name of Desmond came up. By a fortunate coincidence, the very man to whom Mickey was talking was the comrade whose life Desmond had saved, and, as may be expected, our hero had little trouble in drawing out all the information he desired. Everything he heard in regard to the young soldier was favourable. He bore, indeed, a spotless character amongst officers and men, and it would not be well for anyone to utter a word against him whilst any comrade was about.

       "Is he a married man?" asked Mickey, bluntly.

       "Married? Bless you, no. Desmond is too ambitious to get married. When he does renounce single-blessedness, you may be sure it will only be after he has attained to the rank of captain, and then you may be sure his tastes will send him into a different class to that from which sergeants' wives are recruited."

       "Do you know, I am thinking of becoming a soldier myself, but would very much like to see Sergeant Desmond before I decide."

       "It is easy enough to see him. But, my laddie, you seem to be well off. and if you take my advice you will keep away from the Army."

       "Well, you see," said Mickey. "I have plenty of money, and if I did not like the life could easily buy myself out. I'll tell you what. The two of you might come and dine with me this evening, and we can talk the matter over."

       "Well, I don't know. Desmond is a bit stand-offish, and does not readily take up with strangers. But I'll see what he has to say."

       Desmond came, however, more through curiosity than anything else, but before the evening was over he was quite delighted with Mickey Morgan. And no wonder. For our hero was in himself a pleasant companion, but when associated with half-a-dozen bottles of the best champagne he was adorable.

       "I'll tell you what boys," said he at parting. "I am going to spend a week here before I make up my mind whether or no I shall join the Army. But in the meantime I have made a holy resolution to spend £50. Now, for that sum the three of its can live like princes for a week. There is no use in shaking your head — spend it I will — if not with you, with somebody else. Can you not get off for a few days?"

       "Desmond can. He is practically only waiting to have his commission filled up; but, alas! I am tied to my drills."

       It took Mickey some time to persuade the young soldier to fall in with his plan, and when he finally did agree it was because he honestly thought he would be the means of keeping our hero from getting into bad company. Mickey, the schemer, had assumed a very reckless air, and out of pure good nature Desmond consented to pass the week in his company.

       The next morning Miss Ailsmore received a short note, in which our hero ordered her to travel at once to Cowes and put up there at the Royal Hotel. At breakfast she broached the subject to her mother.

       "Do you know, I think a change of air would do us good. I have long had a desire to visit the Isle of Wight — what do you say if we start off there to-day, mother? If we leave it till to-morrow, I shall, in all probability, change my mind."

       Her mother was only too glad of the chance. It was only on very rare occasions that she could get her daughter to stir away from home, and, as the younger lady was master of the purse, she did not like to insist too much on following out her own way of life. Ada's fortune had come to her from an uncle on her father's side, a man who would never even condescend to know her mother, and it was the knowledge of the antagonistic source of her daughter's wealth that kept Mrs. Ailsmore from asserting more strongly her own opinions in the matter of expenditure.

       Two days later, as Miss Ailsmore was climbing the steep road leading to the gates of Osborne, she met Mickey Morgan and a young soldier, whom she rightly concluded to be Desmond. She almost fell at the sight of him; she trembled and blushed, and turned round with a view of running away. But before she could carry out her resolve Mickey ran up to her, greeted her pleasurably as if they had known each other all their lives. His cheery manner had the effect of restoring her to self-control, and when he brought forward the young soldier she was almost calm.

       "Allow me to present to you Miss Ailsmore, a friend of mine, Sergeant Desmond, or, rather, Lieutenant Desmond. You must have heard of the hero of the Kylor Mount?"

       "Yes, I have heard of Mr. Desmond, and am glad to make his acquaintance — how do you do, sir?"

       It was Desmond who was now confused. He hesitated a moment before speaking, and then, after expressing his delight at the opportunity of making her acquaintance, turned upon Mickey Morgan, and said it was really too bad that he should have troubled the young lady by introductions on the Queen's highway.

       "Oh, as far as that goes, Desmond, my young friend is privileged, and any one he does me the honour to present to me, I at once admit into the circle of my most intimate friends."

       Sergeant Desmond bowed and blushed with genuine pleasure. He was dressed in plain clothes, and looked the beau-ideal of a young English gentleman — far better looking even, Miss Ailsmore thought, than the photograph she had seen. They got on wonderfully well together, as how could it be otherwise? Mickey began to take a sudden interest in botanical studies, and left them mostly to themselves. When at length they had to part, a mutual wish that they should meet again soon was expressed, not only in words, but in the more expressive language of the eyes. But when Desmond was alone with our hero he turned reproachfully to him once more:

       "Why the devil did you bother the young lady by introducing me? I wish you had not done so. Had she been an ordinary kind of girl it would not have mattered much, but, my God, those eyes of hers are capable of driving a whole regiment to distraction. I never saw such a sweet girl before>"

       "And yet you grumble at me for presenting her to you! That's what I call gratitude."

       "Can't you see, you villain, that I am madly in love her already? Just fancy a sergeant falling in love with a girl like that!"

       "And why not? You are a sergeant no longer, and a lieutenant is surely good enough for anybody."

       "Ah, my friend, do you know what money is? A lieutenant without a fortune is no better off than a sergeant."

       "Oh, as for money, she has plenty of her own. About five thousand a year, I believe. What does she care about money? I know that if I were in love with her I should try to win her, in spite of all."

       They met again and again during the following fortnight, and with each succeeding day came increased affection.

       Then Mrs. Ailsmore became alarmed, and wanted to return home. There was a fearful scene between the two, during which Ada confessed her love for the young soldier, and her intention to marry him a few months later when she would attain her majority.

       The mother wired for her guardian, who came down by the next train. Between the two they managed to get her away from Cowes without giving her an opportunity of saying good-bye to her lover. But Mickey Morgan remained on the scene. He liked the young soldier; detested Mrs. Ailsmore, and was not going to let matters end so abruptly. Then a great blow fell. Gerald Desmond's commission arrived, and he was ordered to start for India in a week.

       Mickey Morgan ran up to Cardiff, but was not permitted to see Miss Ailsmore. She was very ill, the servant told him. But a bribe of half-a-sovereign elicited the information that she was well enough, but locked in her room with her mother and guardian taking alternate sentry duty. They had heard somehow of Desmond's approaching departure for India, and determined that the foolish girl, as they called her, should he kept a prisoner until he were on the high seas.

       Mickey went back to Southampton and explained the state of affairs to Desmond. The latter was heart-broken. Not that it had ever entered his head to embark on a hasty marriage, but he wished to see his sweetheart at least once before he went away.

       "Look here, Desmond," said our hero. "Do you know what I would do if I were in your place? Why, take out a special licence, scale the walls of her house, liberate her, and marry her at once. I am as certain as I am of my life that if you go away without marrying her she will break her heart. I know you have not got much money, but you surely can borrow from a friend?"

       "There is not a friend in the world I would ask sixpence from."

       "Well, there is one friend who will lend it to you without asking. There are three hundred pounds, which you can pay back at your convenience. So go and get your licence at once."

       But it took all Mickey Morgan's eloquence to get Desmond to accept his offer. He finally gave way, however, and indeed, put himself completely in the young detective's hands. The next day Mickey went back to Cardiff. By the aid of a bribe he managed to get a note conveyed to the prisoner explaining the arrangements he had made. The night following she was to remain ready dressed in her room. He would find means of liberating her and conveying her to Southampton.

       Having gained admission to the house by the connivance of a servant, he secreted himself until close on midnight. Then, ascending the stairs noiselessly, he approached Miss Ailsmore's door, drew out his bunch of skeleton keys, and expeditiously and noiselessly put back the bolt. The young lady was ready for the journey. Just at that moment a coach, drawn by a pair of strong, wiry horses, came along the road outside. Miss Ailsmore came quietly from the house, followed by our hero, and both entered the coach. By morning they were in Bristol, by mid-day in Southampton, and a few hours later Miss Ailsmore became the wife of Lieutenant Desmond. Some months after Mickey received a letter from India — a joint production — thanking him for the assistance he had given to two true lovers, who would remain lovers to the end of their days. There was a postscript, signed "A. D.," which said, "My dear Fellow-conspirator, — I thank you once more from my heart. The photograph is the best husband in the world, and I the happiest woman."

No. 25. — THE GREAT LIBEL CASE.

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       The firm of Messrs. Goodwood and Co., builders and timber merchants, were surprised one morning on receiving no less than a hundred applicaitions for settlement of accounts. Mr. Goodwood, who was both himself and the Co., asked his cashier what the (mentioning the name of a historic character) it could mean?

       "Have we ever kept these people waiting for their accounts?"

       "No, sir; they have always been paid with the utmost punctuality."

       "Well, then, pay them off now, and in each case intimate to them that the account is closed. But no; wait a few days. There must be something in the air to bring about such a remarkable state of tightness amongst so many merchants and manufacturers. They are all hard pressed for money now, poor fellows. Do they think I am going to fail? The fools — I could buy up half of them root and branch."

       Four or five days passed over, and a large number of renewed applications came in. We will give a specimen of one, which is fairly characteristic of the whole:—

       "We are surprised you have taken no notice of our application for a settlement of our account against you. We intimated very clearly that we were pressed for money ourselves, and you can scarcely take it amiss if we insist on obtaining prompt payment of the account honestly due to ourselves. To avoid further trouble, then, will you kindly let us have a draft by return of post?"

       Mr. Goodwood was furious. He sent out the following words to a printer, and the same day posted them in the shape of a circular to the firms that had made renewed applications for their accounts.

       "We have received so many applications for accounts during the last few days that we find it necessary, instead of employing the ordinary methods of correspondence, to send out this circular. Most of the firms we have dealt with for a long number of years, and we are unable to understand why they should now so emphatically insist on receiving their accounts before our usual pay day. However that may be, we enclose you draft for the amount owing to you to date, and beg to intimate that the account between us is closed, and that no representative of your house will ever in the future be permitted to enter this office."

       Receipts came, in due course, with apologies from some of the firms, whilst more than one enclosed copies or originals of letters they had received reflecting on the solvency of the firm of Goodwood and Co. All these letters were more or less in the same words, and told the same tale.

       "The writer has reason to believe that you have numerous transactions with the firm of Goodwood and Co., of Cardiff, and knows beside, that the head of that firm has recently lost so much money by private speculation that his failure can only be at furthest a matter of months. So, if you are wise, you will insist on receiving payment of your account at once. Old Goodwood will, no doubt, turn indignant; threaten to close the account and the rest of it; but take no notice; get your money, and you will be glad afterwards if he really does close the account."

       What Mr. Goodwood's feelings were on reading this production may be easily imagined. Who could have written it? An enemy beyond all doubt, and yet he was unconscious of having any enemy. Business differences he had had many times during his career, but nothing that could supply a motive for such malice as the letter showed.

       That was not the worst. A few days later he learned that a well-known firm of inquiry agents, the publishers of a weekly gazette, had cautioned their clients against having further dealings with Goodwood and Co., But the unkindest cut of all was when he was privately asked to resign the treasureship of a charitable trust, with which he had been for many years prominently associated, and to hand over the funds standing in his name at the bank.

       During those distracted days Mr. Goodwood swore more terribly than even our troops in Flanders are reported to have done long ago. When the intimation regarding the charitable religious trust came to him, he half resolved to turn Atheist, as he had already made up his mind to leave business.

       "Why should a man like me who can lay hands on more than a hundred thousand pounds be worried by religious and commercial mosquitoes? He would see them all in some warm place first."

       But when he thought further about the matter it struck him that the very object of the man who had done this was to drive him from business, and he finally resolved not to he scared by whatever number of libellous statements the unknown might put into circulation about him. No, he would stand his ground, and show that the firm of Goodwood and Co. was as safe as the Bank of England, and the man Goodwood a giant, who could conquer all who dared to put themselves in his path.

       But, at the same time. the first thing to be done was to find out the originator of the libels and to make him suffer. He consulted a lawyer, and was instructed that he had a clear case against the inquiry agents, but he knew very well that these people were, as a rule, very careful in regard to the information they sent out to their clients, and was convinced that they had themselves been misled by the same party who had misrepresented his position to the other firms. He would proceed then against Harland and Co., the agents, whilst at the same time taking steps to find out who was the anonymous libeller. To Mickey Morgan was entrusted the latter duty, and he set about the task with his accustomed zest.

       "I want you to tell me, sir, in the first place, if there is any rival firm who might be benefitted by your downfall."

       "Certainly. Most of the firms in the town would be more or less benefitted should my firm cease to exist. But I am on good terms with the whole of them, and do not think any of them mean enough or daring enough to put these lies in circulation."

       "Have you any private enemies?"

       "Not one as far as I know."

       "And yet, sir, it cannot be a friend who has done this. Are you sure you are not too good-natured in your estimate of your rivals?"

       "That may be. But, as I have never known them to be guilty of anything of the kind in the past, I have no right to assume now that they have all of a sudden changed their manner of treating their neighbour."

       "So that you can give me absolutely no hint?"

       "Not the slightest; you have everything to find out yourself."

       As was natural, Mr. Goodwood discussed the state of affairs with his wife and daughter, and these ladies strongly urged him to give up business altogether. He had a son, too, who was away at college, and, having heard the particulars of the libels from his sister, he also endeavoured to induce his father to relinquish once for all the worries of commerce and retire to some seaside place where the remainder of his days might be spent in peace. But Mr. Goodwood was not a man to be turned aside, even by the strongest domestic pressure, from any coarse he might elect to adopt. He was the head of the house, and whilst he lived he would remain so. He gave his wife and daughter as much pocket-money as they required, and, such being the case, they had no right to interfere with any action he, as a business man, might choose to take. This latter reflection was in answer to an urgent appeal on the part of his daughter to stop the inquiry he had set on foot, to treat his libellers with contempt, and, above all, to stop the action against Harland and Co., which, however favourably it might result, would entail a lot of worry and excitement. He was immovable as Snowdon, and both libel action and inquiry should go on.

       In the meantime Mickey Morgan was puzzling about amongst rival builders and finding very little for his pains. He had an idea that Harland and Co. knew the source whence the libels had sprung, and possibly believed they were not libels at all, so by various methods he endeavoured to get round some of the employes of the firm, and extract some information from them. In this he was also unsuccessful. Any number of communings with his dog "Prince" failed to give him a hint as to the mystery. The libellous communications that he had seen had all been type-written on a Densmore machine — as far as he could see on the same machine — but so many Cardiff firms used this class of typewriter that the knowledge afforded him very little information. On a previous occasion he had obtained a list of these machines, and more than once consulted it with a view of finding some inspiration.

       One night he went to Mr. Goodwood's house half with a view of giving up the case, and acknowledging himself defeated. He was ushered into the sitting-room, and for the first time was brought face to face with Mrs. and Miss Goodwood. The question of the inquiry was, of course, discussed, and when he acknowledged his inability to find the least clue, he thought he saw a look of relief come into the younger lady's face. For a time he thought little of it; but that night, after going to bed, the idea that the libels may have possibly originated in Mr. Goodwood's own house kept continually crossing his mind. The worthy merchant, who was greatly disappointed at our hero's want of success, urged him to go on with the inquiry. Indeed, he rousted Mickey Morgan's temper by suggesting that his previous success had been the result of accident, and that his fame as a detective was unearned. Smarting under this sneer, Mickey determined to make further efforts, and the idea that it was Mr. Goodwood's own daughter who, for some purpose of her own, had written the mysterious letters, pleased him immensely. He would like of all things to be able to show that what was going on every day unobserved under Mr. Goodwood's own eyes, could become pregnant with meaning to a man of the acuteness of Mickey Morgan. Unfortunately for his theory, the typewriter used in Mr. Goodwood's office was not a Densmore, nor, as far as he could find out, was Miss Goodwood capable of using a typewriter of any pattern. Nevertheless, from that night he determined to keep a sharp eye on the young lady's movements.

       But in the meantime the libel action against Harland and Co. was down for hearing. That firm put in the plea that their statement was privileged, and that in any case they had been put into possession of such information as justified them in warning their clients against further dealings with Goodwood and Co. This firm, when the day came, had no difficulty in proving its ability to pay all claims twenty times over. Bankers, stockbrokers, and documents proved it. Harland and Co. put in as evidence the anonymous document they had received which professed to give particulars as to enormous losses sustained by Mr. Goodwood in Stock Exchange speculations. Then they put into the box one of their agents, who testified to having been informed by a young gentleman in the smoke room of a Cardiff hotel that he knew for a fact that the firm of Goodwood and Co. was on the point of collapsing. As their statement to their client simply contained the information "that ominous rumours respecting the solvency of this firm have lately been flying about" they were quite justified in their statement and in advising caution before doing further business with Goodwood and Co. A few days later they learned that such rumours had no foundation in fact, and immediately advised their clients as to the real standing of the firm. The witness was cross-examined by Mr. Goodwood's counsel.

       "You say a young gentleman volunteered this information to you?"

       "Yes."

       "Had you known him before?"

       "No; as far as I can remember I had never seen him before nor have I seen him since."

       "Yet you credited the statement?"

       "Well, coming immediately after the anonymous letter, I did not think I was justified in ignoring it — would you have done so in my position?"

       "In your position I should consider it my duty, before throwing doubts on a respectable firm, to ascertain fully what the position of that firm was."

       "In the meantime you would let your clients run the risk of losing, perhaps, thousands of pounds for want of employing the simple word 'Caution'?"

       Really, it seems it is I and not you who is being cross-examined, so in the end it amounts to this, that on the strength of an anonymous letter and bar-room gossip you put into circulation this atrocious libel."

       "It is not an atrocious libel. It simply states the fact that rumours were flying about."

       At this point Mickey Morgan whispered something to the witness, who turned round and looked round the court.

       "My lord," he said, addressing himself to the judge, the gentleman who gave me the information at the hotel is in this court."

       This created considerable sensation, and everyone looked at everybody else. Even Mr. Goodwood rose to his feet and surveyed the faces around him.

       "Please point him out," said the judge.

       "That young gentleman near the door, with his head down."

       All eyes were at once turned towards the man indicated, who with a face pale as a ghost, looked apprehensively towards Mr. Goodwood. Then the judge asked the new comer if he wished to he examined. He seemed to be in a daze, but went towards the witness-box.

       "Did you tell the gentleman who has just left the witness-box that Mr. Goodwood was on the point of failing?"

       "I did. I was told it myself on what I considered the best authority, but afterwards found out it was a trick played upon me by someone with an object entirely distinct from that of injuring Mr. Goodwood."

       At this point Mickey Morgan approached Mr. Goodwood, and, speaking in low tones, told the mortified old gentleman the following story:—

       "I have to-day learned that that young man was your daughter's sweetheart. To find out whether he loved her for her money or herself she told him that you were ruined, and that, instead of securing a large fortune, she would be a poor girl when he married her. He loved your daughter, however, and would have married her without a penny, but when he found out she lied to him, naturally resented it, and has not seen her since. Now, I think you had better stop this case. You once, I believe, promised your daughter that on your retirement from business you would settle her fortune upon herself. It is she who has written the libels, with a view, no doubt, of getting you to retire at once. I have proof of what I say. In the house of her literary friend, Miss Inglefield, she has long practised with a typewriter, and amongst some waste papers there I found a copy of the libellous documents."

       Poor Mr. Goodwood was thunderstruck and humiliated in the last degree. He instructed his counsel to bring the case to a close as soon as possible, and to ask for a merely formal verdict.

       This was given without hesitation in his favour, and the great libel case came to an end. But Miss Goodwood by her man&oe;uvres lost both the affection of her sweetheart and her father, and failed to gain her point, for the firm of Goodwood is still in existence.

No. 26. — A DARING ROBBERY.

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       Mr. William Keatling dealt in curiosities, or what he was pleased to describe as such. Those who were in Mr. Keatling's secrets, however, were aware that many of his Indian gods and Japanese idols were manufactured in the small room at the back of his shop. All the same, he sometimes came into possession of articles of rare value, and had a reputation amongst curio-seekers in all parts of the country.

       One Saturday afternoon as he sat in his shop a foreign-looking sailor entered, and in broken English explained to him that he had an Indian idol for sale, but of such rare interest and value that he would not dare to bring it ashore. He invited Mr. Keatling to go on board with him, where the idol could be examined and appraised at leisure. The curio dealer was, of course, pleased at the chance offered, and went at once to the docks. The idol, to the experienced eye of dealer, was a rare one of its kind and he saw he would have no difficulty in disposing of it at a good price. A bargain was soon made, and he returned in triumph to his shop sending out that same night an account of his acquisition to some likely purchasers. Soon after retiring to bed Mr. Keatling had a nightmare, in which the idol performed the part of the devil, leaving him fidgety and nervous through the whole night. He slept little, and yet, though his bedroom was directly over shop, some one had entered and stolen the idol during the night. The robber must have entered, of course, for how else could he have laid hands on the idol. But there was no evidence whatever of any one having interfered with door or window, nor had anything else in the shop been interfered with. The idol had been taken, nevertheless, or had flown away on its own account. When Mr. Keatling considered the matter at his leisure he was inclined to accept this latter explanation. He was a little superstitious, particularly in regard to Hindoo subjects, and it would not have surprised him in the least to find out that the idol had some volition of its own, and had taken wings to itself and gone back to India. Nevertheless, he informed the police of the robbery, and went himself to see the sailor from whom the idol had been bought. The ship, however, had sailed during the night, and he had to abandon all hopes of recovering his property in that quarter. The police were unable to find any trace of the missing article, and Mr. Keatling had given up all hopes of ever finding it, when a new interest was added to the case by the appearance in the Cardiff papers of an advertisement accurately describing the idol and offering a reward of £50 to anyone who would send information of its whereabouts to a firm of London solicitors, the name and address of which were given. Mr Keatling at once wrote to London detailing his unfortunate connection with the idol, and the next day a gentleman from the firm called upon him. The idol, he said, bad been stolen from a Spanish gentleman in Bilbao, in whose family it had remained for more than two hundred years, The present representative of the family attached some superstitions importance to the possession of the idol, and was prepared to spend a large sum for its recovery. Mr. Calvert, the London gentleman, had the idea that Keatling was still in possession of the idol, and only made up the story of the robbery for the sake of securing better terms. But he was soon able to convince himself that Keatling had reported his loss long before the advertisement appeared in the papers, and before he could have known anything of the high value attached to it by his Spanish client. A few days later Keatling received the sum of £20 in Bank of England notes from an anonymous correspondent, and the same day the Spaniard turned up in Cardiff. He was in a nervously excitable state over his loss, and stated that he would never return to his native land unless he recovered the idol. The London solicitor advised him to employ a Metropolitan detective to assist in the search, but Mr. Keatling, who had heard a great deal of Mickey Morgan, advised that the case should be put into that young gentleman's hand. This was agreed to, and the same day our hero began his search for the idol. Like Mr. Keatling himself, his first suspicions turned towards the sailor who had sold the article, but when he found that his ship had sailed even before Mr. Keatling had left his shop for the night he had to turn to other directions for a solution of the problem. Still, he could not altogether get out of his mind the idea that the sailor was in some way connected with the robbery. He might have left a confederate in Cardiff, or, perhaps, he had not sailed with the ship at all. The worst of the matter was that he did not know the sailor's name, for Keatling had never thought of asking it, and there was no ready means of finding out if he was really one of those who had gone out with the ship. The agents could tell him nothing. If he wanted information the best way to get it, they informed him, was to go to Bordeaux, where the Santa Fe was then lying. This was an idea that commended itself to Mickey, and he set out at once for the French port. He had spent a few hours there on a previous occasion, so was not quite a stranger to the place. The Santa Fe was on the point of sailing when he arrived, but the facility with which he now spoke French, and a note from the British Consul, got him speedy access to the vessel, and amongst the crew he had no difficulty in picking out one who corresponded in every particular with the description Mr. Keatling had given him of the vendor of the idol. As it turned out. he was not mistaken, but when the sailor heard of the robbery his surprise was so genuine that Morgan saw at once he was entirely innocent of any knowledge of it. He was not only surprised, but indignant, and in his broken English cursed the idol and the first day he had ever seen it.

       Mickey Morgan asked him to give an account of how it had come into his possession. Put into plainer English than the sailor could command, his story was as follows:—

       "We were lying at Bilbao after having discharged a cargo of coals, and were waiting orders as to where she should proceed next. There was no cargo for us at the Biscayan port, and our captain was expecting orders to sail for Cartagena in ballast. Now and again we took a few passengers, and on this occasion had been asked our destination over and over again by people anxious to get to one place or another. Amongst them was one who apparently did not care a straw where we were going. He wanted a voyage, he said, and one place would suit him as well as another. I had met the gentleman before; indeed, knew him to be of a good family in Aragon, and was not surprised at his taking it into his head to travel a little. He would not bring his luggage on board, however, until he knew our destination, but all the same he brought me that cursed idol, saying that he wanted it to be carried out of Spain at all costs, and, should he not eventually sail with us, I was to take it as my own. An English or French curio dealer would, he said, give me a large sum for it. As a matter of fact, my friend did not sail with us. He did not even come near the ship again, and I was, of course, glad of it. Whatever the idol might be worth it had come cheaply enough into my possession, and I was the richer by so much as I could sell it for. All the same I hated the thing, and did not like even to touch it. It was horribly ugly, and I would sooner have thrown it into the sea than hawked it through the streets of Cardiff."

       Whilst Mickey Morgan was journeying to France the Spaniard, Don Eduardo Lopez, was nervously pacing the streets of Cardiff. He was in desperation — almost driven to suicide. Indeed, one night when the tide was up in the Taff he would of a certainty have thrown himself in had the water been a little cleaner.

       "It is not fit to drown a dog in," he mused, "and would be an unworthy grave for a caballero of Spain. No, I shall not drown myself in dirty water, not even in this muddy English sea — it would reflect upon the good taste of my race."

       The desperation of Senor Lopez can be more easily understood when we explain that the Indian idol contained in its intestines the whole of the family jewels, as well as a large number of securities representing, in fact, the greater part of his fortune. The worst of the matter was that the idol and its contents disappeared just at the time when it was necessary to demonstrate to a prospective father-in-law the strength of the Lopez exchequer, and his marriage with the beautiful Senorita Pepita del Castillo had to be indefinitely postponed. Like most Spaniards, Don Eduardo was very careful in money matters, and ardent in love. He could not himself tell which he regretted most — the fortune or the sweetheart; but should he eventually lose both he had made up his mind that his life should soon end. Whether by suicide, or, more bravely, as a soldier in his country's cause, he had not yet made up his mind. He had made a big mistake in not explaining to Mickey Morgan the real nature of the loss he had sustained. To steal an Indian idol for the sake of its market value might be done by any ordinary thief, but the fact of the idol containing valuable property would argue that the thief was one who was in the secret, and might be looked for amongst the servants of the house, or those people intimately acquainted with the owner.

       When Mickey Morgan heard the sailor's story he inquired the name and address of the gentleman who had brought the idol on board at Bilbao; and, learning that his name was Pascual, and lived in the Plaza de San Miguel, Zaragoza. he at once set out for that place. Ever since he made his first journey to San Sebastian in connection with Miss Bradley's case he had taken up the study of Spanish vigorously, and now was able to explain himself very fairly in that language. He was fortunate enough to find that Senor Pascual was at home. He had recently been away, the neighbours told him. Where no one exactly knew, although they believed he had been to Paris. Pascual was a young gentleman of about 24 years of age, good-looking, and the owner of some property in the Aragon capital. He was unmarried, and, our hero learned on good authority, was likely to remain so, for the lady of his choice had turned her eyes in another direction. After considerable trouble, including a journey to Bilbao. Mickey Morgan learned that Pascual's rival was no other than Don Eduardo Lopez, who was at that moment eating his heart out in Cardiff. This was a valuable hint, and suggested to our hero that the idol had some other value beyond that represented by its selling price as a curio. Following out this train of thought, it occurred to him that during his absence from Zaragoza Pascual might have himself gone to Cardiff and thus have been, for the second time, the robber of the idol. At any rate, he would endeavour to find out if that article was now in his possession. An Englishman's house is his castle, we are told, but a Spaniard's is much more so. To gain admission to a Spanish house is always a difficult matter, where before the door is opened to anyone the servant takes a survey through the peep-holes provided for the purpose. But even this difficulty our hero was able to overcome, and the result of his obseravtions was that he despatched the following telegram to Don Eduardo Lopez at Cardiff:—

       "Come here at once. Good news. Am staying Fonda de Europa."

       Three days later Senor Lopez arrived and heard an account at what Mickey Morgan had done on his behalf. That same evening a search warrant was obtained, and the stolen idol was found in Pascual's house. The rest of the story had better be told in his own words:

       "I am beaten, and I give in. I had heard from a private source that Senor Lopez kept his jewels and securities in the inside of the idol, and as I wanted at all hazards to prevent his marriage with the Senorita Pepita I determined to steal them. My first object was to throw the idol into the sea, and then somehow my conscience would not let me do it. I had for some reason or other a fear of the thing, so determined to get rid of it in England — to put it into a place of safety. So when I got word that the Santa Fe was sailing for Cardiff I determined to go with her. Unfortunately, after having left the idol on board. I missed the boat, but started at once overland for Cardiff."

       "But the sailor say you gave him the idol in case you should not turn up," said Mickey Morgan.

       "The sailor lies. I did not even show it to him. Arriving at Cardiff, I had some days to wait for the boat, and somehow it occurred to me not to show myself to the crew, but to endeavour to get possession of the idol unknown to anyone. When I was laying out my plan one day I saw Juan, the sailor, come on board with what I took to be the idol under his arm. I followed him to the dealer's, and when I saw him leave without it determined to buy the article at once. Unfortunately, I had come away very ill-provided with money, and would have to wait remittances from home. But in the meantime I determined to watch the shop to see that no one else bought it before me. Then that same night, seeing a favourable opportunity, when the dealer had gone behind, I slipped quietly in, put the idol under my cloak, walked quietly away, and an hour afterwards left Cardiff,/CORR>. As soon as I got home I sent through a friend in London —20 to the dealer, far more than he had paid for it."

       Don Eduardo Lopez found the contents of the idol intact, and in his joy at the recovery forgave his discomfited rival, and richly rewarded Mickey Morgan for the smart manner in which he had restored to him his fortune.

No. 27. — THE FERNDALE ROBBERY.

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       One of the greatest ambitions of Mickey Morgan's life was to encounter a ghost. During the course of his career as a detective he had come into contact with all kinds of potentates, from a champion footballer down to a Royal Prince, and had met without flinching such mighty abstractions as sea-sickness and the Nonconformist conscience. Though a very young man, he was well armed with patience and logic, and it has been said to his credit that upon a certain occasion he listened to an argument in favour of Sunday Closing without swearing. For it must be told entre nous that Mickey Morgan could swear. Not indiscriminately, for he had come to regard the noble art as he regarded champagne drinking — to be indulged in only on rare and exciting occasions, and when calculated to give artistic completeness to an exciting scene. He would not swear, for instance, when he found the horse of his choice marked with a nought after a big race, or when a hyper-consorious, but uncritical, sub-editor mutilated his best sentences, leaving disconsolate substantives unpaired, standing in mute amazement at the loss of the verbs which by every law of Lindley Murray and comnon-sense should be found somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood. No, such small matters could not move him; but when upon a memorable occasion an indiscreet lawyer's clerk ventured to give expression to some doubts regarding the honour of the ancestry of his dog "Prince," his language, we have been told, astonished everybody in the chasteliness of its profanity. Mickey Morgan did not fear anything or anybody material. He was brave enough to charge an army, even to edit an evening newspaper and start a football competition, but in the matter of ghosts he was half inclined to consider himself a coward. He had never seen a ghost, nor seen anybody who had seen a ghost; but through some inexplicable weakness of character he believed in the existence of such things — and of Mr. Stead. A clever journalistic friend once tried to prove to him that neither Mr. Stead nor his ghosts could possibly exist — that they were mere waking nightmares, phychological phenomena which science or himself could ultimately manage to explain away. But Mickey Morgan in spite of all, believed in ghosts, and yearned to come into friendly relationship with one of them. His opportunity came at last, and through the charming young widow, Mrs. Traynor, whom he had rescued from a private lunatic asylum at Hereford. Anyone who knows Ferndale must be acquainted with Broad View, a haughty kind of house crowning the top of a hill in the immediate neighbourhood. It was a peculiar house from many points of view, but its most distinguishing characteristic was that of being able to adopt itself to the varying moods of the weather. On bright days it could look as benign as a bishop on confirmation day; whilst in cloudy weather it frowned as fiercely as a teetotal parson when meditating on the loss in his weekly receipts through the superior attractions of beer. But it was, on the whole, considered to be an aggressive and severe house, looking down too chidingly on the little weaknesses which characterised the good people of Ferndale. Men of a nervous or conscientious temperament were afraid of the house. It seemed to be able to read their inmost thoughts, and was a continuous reproach to them. But the culminating point was reached when it became known that Broad View was haunted. The uncanniness of the house became at once complete; it turned from an inanimate mass into a living spiritual entity, and became a fountain of fear to the rising generation. There could be no doubt in the world but that it was haunted. The owner said so, and refused to live in it. He let it to a sceptic, who left it in a week. Another tenant was found, but he also. in spite of energetically expressed contempt for all the ghost fraternity, could not be induced to continue to live in the house. The society of psychological research sent down a man from London to investigate the affair, and he in a learned report found, beyond all doubt, that a ghost had taken up his residence in Broad View. It was not a visible ghost — no one had got a glimpse of it even for a moment — but it made its presence felt all the same, even at times when ghosts are supposed to be attending service in different latitudes. The manifestations at Broad View took the form of voices, and mysterious voices were heard at varying hours by day and night. Some people stated that they could even distinguish words, and that the ghost was continually warning all good Christians to leave that house or evil should befall them. By a strange want of consideration on the part of the ghost, he chose the bathroom as his favourite haunt, and forced even the most courageous to revert to the habits of more primitive times in the matter of cleanliness. The ghost, too, was often heard in the kitchen, and no servant could be found to remain a single month in the house. In the end no tenant could be found for the place, and it was abandoned to a caretaker, who, though he professed the greatest fear of the ghost, seemed happy enough to be left in possession of a fine house with a large garden and orchard. Neither his wife nor children seemed much in fear of the ghost. The former was once heard to declare that she did not believe there was any ghost at all. The next day, however, her scepticism was removed, for mysterious voices sailed round the kitchen for at least half an hour. Yet the woman was not much frightened. It seemed a natural kind of voice, and did not correspond with her conceptions what a ghost's voice should be. The owner of the house was Mr. Hillward, a jolliery proprietor. As has been stated, he believed so much in the ghost that he abandoned the house, hoping that the enmity of the mysterious spook might not be extended to anyone but himself. In this he was disappointed, however, for the ghost treated everyone with admirable impartiality. Then Mr. Hillward attempted to sell, but, as no buyer willing to give even half the value of the house could be found, he had finally to make up his mind to turn it over to a caretaker. A gas fitter from the village offered to live in the house and keep it in repair in return for the use of the garden and orchard. This arrangement suited the owner well enough, now that he had made up his mind that Broad View was to remain permanently untenanted. Mr Hillward was down in Cardiff one day, and incidentally mentioned the matter of the ghost to his lawyer.

       "That there is some noise of an unexplained character," said the lawyer, "I must believe. But that there is a ghost in Broad View seems to me to be utter childishness."

       "It may seem so to you, but will you live in the house? I offer it to you at a quarter of its real value."

       "If the house were nearer to Cardiff I should accept your offer with pleasure. I don't see why I should have less courage than the gas-fitter you have installed. Take my advice, Mr. Hillward. Get Mickey Morgan on the track of that ghost, and see if he does not get rid of him."

       That same day Mr. Hillward acted on this advice, and Mickey journeyed out to Ferndale. He took up his residence at Broad View, and that same night the ghost was polite enough to make its presence known. Our hero was taking tea in the kitchen when the sound came. It resembled the cry of some one in great pain. Mrs. Evans, however, the wife of the caretaker, did not seem to be much frightened.

       "Drat that ghost; I thought it had gone altogether. It is now more than a week since it cried last."

       "Is that the way it always cries, ma'am?"

       "Oh, no; it seems to talk sometimes. But the queer part is that it always carries on when my husband is outside. I don t believe he has ever heard the ghost even once, though he swears he has heard it often."

       Whilst the woman was talking the cry was repeated once more, seeming to come down the chimney. Mickey Morgan went outside to see if, by any chance, some one was on the roof. But no; the only person visible was the caretaker, who was coming from the direction of a well that supplied Broad View with water. For the remainder of the night the ghost was silent. Neither did anything happen the following day, but at night in the bath-room the ghostly rounds were repeated once more. Evans, the caretaker, was also absent on this occasion, and the fact struck Mickey Morgan as suspicious. The next day Miss Hillward, the daughter of the landlord, came to see how the detective had succeeded in his investigations.

       "I have nothing to tell yet, miss," he said, "but I believe I can put an end to your ghost. However, I am not certain, but if my suspicions are correct the most nervous of your family need have no fear of occupying the house once more."

       Three or four days passed over without further signs of life from the ghost, and then one evening, in Mickey Morgan's absence, the whisperings began once more. Evans, the caretaker, happened to be in at the time, and, as soon as the sounds reached his ears, he got up from the table in a violent hurry and rushed from the house, swearing furiously all the time. His imprecations did not seem to be directed towards the ghost, but were levelled at Mickey Morgan.

       "By gad, that cursed lad will ruin me — if I don't make away with him first."

       He ran in the direction of the well, and came upon Mickey, who was peering into a hole in the wall. As soon as our hero saw Evans, and noticed the expression of his face, he started to run, but the other was too sharp for him, and Mickey found himself thrown to the ground with Evans on top of him, a fiery glitter in his eye and his whole countenance transformed with rage.

       "So you have found out the ghost?" hissed out Evans.

       "Yes."

       "And what do you intend to do?"

       "Inform Mr. Hillward, of course."

       "You must promise to keep silence or you shall never leave this place alive."

       "What, you would kill me for doing my duty?"

       "What's duty to you is ruin to me — you must promise never to inform a soul of what you know."

       Mickey, who had reason to know that help would reach him in a short time, parleyed a little with the man. Earlier in the evening he had sent word to Mr. Hillward, that he had found out the ghost, and if he came up to the house, would explain all to him.

       Evans continued to press for a promise of secrecy, and Mickey saw himself every moment getting into a tighter corner. The furious caretaker was pressing his fingers into the boy's throat, when help came from an unexpected quarter. "Prince," who had remained in the house for reasons not unconnected with the larder, now came out, and, seeing his master in need of assistance, rushed forward and sprang at Evans's throat. In an instant the latter dropped his clutch of Mickey and tried to defend himself. But "Prince" now that he saw his master in safety, did not continue the fight; and Evans, muttering threats of murder, went sullenly towards the house.

       Just then Mr. Hillward and his daughter, accompanied by a police officer, came up the hill.

       "So you have found out the ghost, Mr. Morgan?" said the landlord, somewhat doubtingly.

       "Yes, sir, I have found it out, and if you go into the bathroom now I can manage to give you a final seance before the Broad View ghost disappears for ever."

       The three went to the bathroom as requested, whilst Mickey Morgan, returning to the well, whispered into a hole in the wall, "Don't fear. You hear this voice! It is Mickey Morgan." Returning then to find the astonished pair had heard every word in the bath-room Mickey soon explained. A small passage of communication existed between the well and the house, and this the caretaker had used to frighten the inmates for his own purpose.

---

       Mr. Allan Jenkins had decided that he was a fit and proper person to represent his native district in the county council. Many of his friends agreed with him, and at their urgent request he allowed his name to be put forward as an independent candidate. He chose the independent ticket because he knew little about politics, and because there was already a Conservative and a Liberal candidate in the field. Mr. Jenkins, if anything, was move inclined to the Tory side, chiefly because he disliked the Radical candidate, and was a disbeliever in all kinds of "isms." He disbelieved in Sunday Closing, Local Option, theatre reforming, public parks, and art galleries. Oh, there were any number of things he did not believe in, but the great difficulty was to find a programme — to find something he did believe in. Mr. William Williams, the Radical candidate, was a champion faddist — at least, so Mr. Burland, the Tory candidate said — and Jenkins for want of a programme of his own determined to distinguish himself by scoring off Mr. Williams. He had a pretty wit, and once launched in full tilt against the narrow-minded Radicalism of his opponent he found himself turning from a negative into a positive quantity. Mr. Williams, for instance, was in favour of removing a portable theatre that at the time existed in the neighbourhood. Mr. Jenkins went strongly in favour of the theatre, and, by a natural sequence of thought, developed the doctrine that the county council should subsidise a theatre and provide innocent and healthy amusement to the ratepayers. That was plank number one in his programme. Mr. Williams went in strongly for an art gallery, which he contended would help to raise the moral tone of the district. Mr. Jenkins, with fine sarcasm, recommended Mr. Williams to turn sandwich man, and, with a picture in front and another behind, parade the streets until such time as the moral tone of the district had been raised to the desired level.

       "Art! Art!" shouted Mr. Jenkins, "I hate this parrot cry of art. Is not music an art — but what does our Mr. Williams propose to do for music? Why, bless you, everyone can understand and be delighted by music — even the old grandmothers and babies in arms dance with delight at the sound of good music; therefore, Mr. Williams ignores it. He would give you a picture instead. Now, I say we should have a good band, maintained by the public rates, and let those who want pictures go elsewhere."

       Here was another positive principle added to Mr. Jenkin's programme Mr. Williams was in favour of spending a large sum of money on a public park. Mr. Jenkins at once opposed such a course.

       "A public park!" he said. "Does not every man, woman, and child know that in this place we are never more than ten minutes from a country walk. And when do we use these parks? Why, bless you, on the fine, bright days of the year, when a walk in the country is equally available. But what does Mr. Williams propose to give us for the six dull, rainy, murky months of the year? Nothing. Now, what I say, gentlemen, is that the county council should erect a winter palace, where the working man and his family should be able to spend a pleasant evening after the day's work is done."

       Here Mr. Jenkins had added another plank to his programme.

       Mr. Williams went in strongly for extending the Free Library system. Mr. Jenkins hurled the whole force of his logic against the proposal.

       "You can buy a book nowadays for a couple of coppers, and if it were not for this pernicious free library system we should have all the best books of the day published in penny numbers, and the penny dreadful driven out of the house. I am not against having a good reference library, where rare and expensive books could be consulted, but I contend that we have no right to squander the ratepayers' money n providing Sarah Jane or William Harry with novels, whilst their hard-working parents are left without a place to spend their evenings. Mr. Williams's doctrine is: Do everything for the kids and let their fathers and mothers go to the devil."

       In short, Mr. Jenkins opposed the whole of the Radical programme, and by his counter proposals seemed to carry the electors with him. Neither did his Conservative opponent escape the lash of his tongue. Mr. Burland was a colliery proprietor and a large house-owner in the district. He advocated public baths, and Mr. Jenkins would only consent to think about such a proposal when all his own nostrums had been realised. We had better give part of his speech.

       "Mr. Burland wants us to have public baths. I say we ought to have private baths. Why should any house be allowed to be constructed without having a bath-room? Our working men — colliers — are left to perform their necessary daily ablutions with the eyes of every inmate of their house upon them, not to speak of the neighbours who pass in and out. Why does not Mr. Burland advocate the erection of a bath at the mouth of his own pit, where his workmen could wash and change immediately after their work was over, and go home to their families with Nature's colour on their faces? I say, gentlemen, that such a bath should be provided outside of every pit in the kingdom, and if I had my way you may depend upon seeing it done."

       In short, Mr. Jenkins became more Radical than the Radical and more Tory than the Tory, and, whilst his own meetings were always crowded, his opponents were left with only a dozen or two of their loyal followers to serve as audiences. As the polling-day approached the excitement became intense. The walls were posted with bills "Vote for Williams and open spaces," and underneath "Vote for Jenkins and covered spaces," "Vote for Burland and public baths," and "Vote for Jenkins and private baths."

       That the independent candidate would get in there could now be little doubt. The other two were left completely behind, as far as popular enthusiasm was concerned. Mr. Jenkins's committee were exuberant. They had become complete converts to the new doctrines evolved from their candidates brain by the stress of circumstances. They were proud of Mr. Jenkins and proud of themselves for having discovered him.

       But one night a pall was cast over their proceedings. It only wanted three days to polling-day, and at the greatest meeting of all Mr. Jenkins did not turn up. The committee were dumbfounded, and the audience nervous and excited. Messengers were despatched in all directions, telegrams sent up and down, but nothing could be heard of Mr. Jenkins. It was unlike him, the chairman declared publicly, not to send a message. Some accident, some unaccountable circumstance, must be wanted to explain his absence. The morning came, but no Mr. Jenkins appeared. His wife and family were now thoroughly alarmed.

       They scanned the newspapers in the hope or fear of finding some news that would account for his absence. The news of his disappearance had, of course, got abroad, and the inevitable reporter had got his quarter of a column of copy out of it, but nothing appeared that could in any way explain the mystery. The police were communicated with, and finally the committee wired for Mickey Morgan to take up the matter. Our hero, who was a careful reader of the newspapers, had his curiosity already aroused by the case, and lost no time in responding to the telegram. His companion, "Prince," of course, was at his heels when he reached the scene of the mystery. He had also brought with him a smart "Express" boy, as he thought it very likely he would find it necessary to shadow both the ether candidates.

       For nearly two days every one of these gentlemen's movements were watched, but not the least thing of a suspicious nature was observed. The day before the polling arrived everyone was astounded to find the following placard on the walls:—

       "Mr. Allan Jenkins desires to re-assure his friends regarding his safety, but begs to withdraw his candidature in favour of Mr. Burland. Mr. Jenkins, who is detained by stress of circumstances, will return home in two days."

       Mr. Burland's supporters were astounded by this placard. They declared on all hands that it was a dodge on the part of Mr. Williams to make it appear that Mr. Burland was responsible for Mr. Jenkins's disappearance. The Radical candidate protested vigorously that he knew nothing of the placard nor of the whereabouts of Mr. Jenkins. The general opinion now was that Mr. Williams would get in. The constituency was a Radical one; only momentarily attracted from party loyalty by the glamour of the new Jenkinsonian doctrines, and the opinion that the Tory was concerned in the strange disappearance had taken deep root. Mr. Jenkins's own committee did not know what to do or to believe, but after an excited discussion it was decided that they should still advise all their friends to vote for the missing man.

       It was Mickey Morgan's habit to review all possible solutions of the cases with which he was connected, to test the most probable ones first, and then go down the scale until reaching the real solution.

       He had now got a clue, and about nightfall on the eve of the poll became convinced that he knew who was responsible for Mr. Jenkins's disappearance. He was in a certain public-house, famous as the resort of betting men. Pretending to be absorbed in the perusal of that evening's "Express," he listened to all that was whispered around him. What he heard gave him the desired clue.

       "I am sure of Williams now," said one horsey-looking individual, "and stand to win a couple of hundreds on him. Gad, if Jenkins had not gone away, I should have been ruined."

       "Could you not have hedged?" asked another.

       "Hedged? No; I had laid my money before Jenkins had developed that talent for mob oratory, and no one would lay against him afterwards."

       Soon after this the horsey gentleman went out, followed closely by Mickey Morgan. For a time both went on in silence, then the complacent betting man, looking towards a neighbouring hill, gave an amused kind of laugh, and muttered something under his breath. Mickey's colleague was at hand, so, leaving him to keep an eye on his new acquaintance, he waited a little, and then, followed by "Prince," walked quickly in the direction of the hill. He found old tram lines coming from a disused coal pit halfway up the hill. The entrance was a level one, and Mickey tried to penetrate to the inside of the colliery, but found his way blocked by a thick wall of rubbish. Lighting a match he examined the ground, and found several recent footmarks, and everything indicated that the obstruction in front of him had been of recent construction. By himself he could do little to get through, but "Prince," who seemed to at once divine his wishes, set about removing the obstruction in a business-like way. Looking round the narrow entrance, Mickey's eye rested on some slate slabs in the sides of the tunnel, and, quickly detaching one of these, he was able to considerably assist "Prince" in his efforts. After about half an-hour's work, our hero caught a gleam of light from the top of the mud wall. This gave him renewed spirits to go on with the work, and in a few minutes afterwards he was able to force his way through. At some distance inside he found a bright light burning, and a man stretched on a mattress, apparently asleep. Mickey Morgan shook him. The steeper awakened, rubbed his eyes, cursed a little, and asked:—

       "Is the election over at last?"

       "No! 'twill take place to-morrow — you'll be in time to win after all."

       "To win! Have you scoundrels changed your minds, then?"

       "Don't call me a scoundrel. I have been employed by your committee to find you, and now come along."

       "Yes; I'll come if I can, but look at my legs."

       Mr. Jenkins was fastened by two short chains to two pillars, situated at opposite sides of the working. He had been able to enjoy a certain amount of liberty, but neither chain would allow him to approach the fastening of the other. Both his hands were free, however, and a plentiful supply of food, with the lamp and a tin of oil, lay beside him. Mickey was soon able to give him complete liberty, and, taking the lamp with them, both scrambled through the tunnel.

       Just at that moment Mr. Jenkins's supporters were urging all his former friends to vote for him, and to show the enemies who had spirited him away that wherever he himself might be his principles lived amongst them.

       When the candidate and the young detective came upon the scene the excitement was tremendous.

       Mr. Jenkins told his tale in a few words. He was walking outside his house on the evening of his disappearance, thinking of the matter of his forthcoming speech, when he was seized from behind, a handkerchief pressed into his mouth, and quickly carried away. As far as his imprisonment went he had not too many complaints to make about his treatment, but, all the same, he would bring the full force of the law to bear against his captors. Mr. Morgan, the clever young detective who had found him, had assured him that his abduction was the work of betting men, who, at the beginning of his candidature, had laid heavy odds against him, and took that barbarous and un-English manner of saving themselves. Then Mr. Jenkins declared that his three days' confinement had only strengthened him in the views he had already expressed to them, and that he felt every confidence that the following night would see him at the head of the poll. Before the meeting broke up the betting men had been arrested, and the whole neighbourhood was ringing with cheers for Mickey Morgan.

       The election turned out as Mr. Jenkins had anticipated, for the other two candidates were almost entirely deserted.

No. 29. — A LADY'S PORTRAIT.

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       Mickey Morgan is in love. He does not disguise the fact even from himself. All his friends are aware of it. Mrs. Simmons chaffs him about it, and Mrs. Traynor and one or two other ladies are jealous. The little Rhondda widow has employed all her arts to wheedle out of Morgan the name of his lady-love. But she has not succeeded, and for the best of all reasons — he does not know himself. He wants to know, and believes that he has only to ask the question to find out all about her. But a great love shyness has taken possession of him, and though fifty times a day he goes past the window in Queen-street, where her portrait is shown, he has never been able to summon up sufficient courage to go inside and ask the name of the original. For the reader must know that it is with the photograph Mickey is in love; and yet not exactly with the photograph, for he feels in his heart of hearts that the young lady represented must be the sweetest girl on this earth. It is true that her nose is too large; but then it is her nose, and to be loved on that account. And who would look at a nose, with such a dimply-cornered mouth underneath, and such a pair of enchanting brown eyes above? He judged them to be brown, for the mass of glorious dark hair could only correspond with brown eyes — unless indeed, the original turned out to be Spanish or Irish. When, in the Bradley case, Mickey went to the beautiful Spanish watering-place San Sabastian, he noticed there many pretty girls of the blue-eyed and black-haired type. In Ireland, too, such girls are plentiful, but he was convinced that the girl of his love was English or Welsh. Young as Mickey Morgan was, he had common-sense enough to know that the chances were ten to one against his ever having anything to do with the unknown young lady. She might turn out to be the daughter of a millionaire, or even a princess. But that could not prevent him from loving her at a distance. He did not think it probable that he should ever he able to prefer the humble request of the poet who said:—

A place in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name.

       No; the chances were that if they ever met she would not give a second thought to the ex-newsboy, and the detective. And yet fate turned out more generous to him. He did meet her afterwards; she did speak to him, and even, on a memorable day, threw her arms round his neck! But this is anticipating, and we must bring Mickey back to his professional duties.

       He was sitting in his office one day, when a bald-headed old gentleman came in. After eyeing our hero for a moment he asked, somewhat cholerically:

       "Are you Mr. Morgan, the detective?"

       "Yes, sir."

       "Hum; you are older than I thought — why, d—n it, you're a man!"

       "I cannot help it, sir."

       "And you're too confoundedly good-looking; you're —–"

       "Beyond my power to remedy."

       "Don't interrupt me, sir. I will not be interrupted, I tell you. You know you're too good-looking for my purpose."

       "Not knowing what your purpose is, how can I be expected to say?"

       "You shall soon know. In short, I have a daughter —–"

       "Like Polonius."

       "By gad, if you interrupt me again I'll horsewhip you. I have a daughter, I tell you, and she's going clean mad — fallen head over ears in love with a black — a copper-coloured Hottentot or Hindoo, or I don't know what."

       Mickey Morgan considered it quite natural that so near a relative as the old gentleman in front of him should turn crazy.

       "Well, I want you to cure my daughter of this mad love — you must make love to her yourself."

       Our hero had now set down the old gentleman as being beyond all doubt a candidate for Bridgend.

       "You must make love to her, and make her love you — but not too much. Confound you, I'm afraid she'll love you too much — she's as romantic as a —— seagull."

       "Is she good-looking, sir?"

       "What's that to you, sir?"

       "Oh, nothing, only I would prefer to court a pretty girl."

       "Do you think she could be a daughter of mine and not pretty?"

       "Hum! The, sometimes take after the mother, you know."

       "Well, look at that," and as the old gentleman spoke he pulled a photograph from his pocket. Mickey Morgan blushed and looked dumb-stricken with amazement. It was the photograph of the lady of his dreams — the counterpart of the one he had so often gazed upon in Queen-street.

       "Gad; you see in to think her pretty enough at any rate," said the old gentleman; and then, another thought striking him, he blurted out:

       "By heavens. I believe you know her! Speak out, you villain — do you know my daughter?"

       All Mickey Morgan's flippancy was now gone. The father of his angel should be treated with respect, and, if necessary, protected. He answered then mildly enough:

       "No, sir; I am sure I have never set eyes on this young lady."

       By great efforts and superhuman patience, our hero dragged from the old man what his wishes were and the particulars of the dangers he feared in connection with his daughter. Briefly put, the matter was this: Colonel Blundell had spent many years of his life in India, and when retiring from active service he determined to take up his residence in the old country. He decided that the comparatively mild climate of South Wales would suit him better than his native place in the North Riding of Yorkshire. He was fortunate enough to meet with a residence commanding a view of the Bristol Channel, which met his idea of what a retired military officer's residence should be. His wife had been dead some years before he left India, and out of three children he was left with, an only daughter — Norah — who had been everything a daughter should be until the gentleman from India came upon the scene. This was a young Prince, who, about to commence his university education at Oxford, came with a letter of introduction to the colonel from no less a person than the chief of the staff himself. Under the circumstances Colonel Blundell had no course open to him but to pay those attentions to the young Prince which his birth and circumstances of his isolated position in this country demanded. He passed the midsummer vacation at the colonel's house, and became so familiar that on the slightest pretext he would rush down from Oxford to spend a day or two at Craig House, which the colonel's residence was called. For a long time the old gentleman remained unsuspicious of the fact that it was his daughter and not himself who was the attraction to his guest. When the truth suddenly dawned upon him he became furious. Prince What's-his-name, as he contemptuously called him, might be a Prince amongst blacks, but he was no fit husband for the daughter of an English officer — and that officer Colonel Blundell. He came across a letter couched in familiarly affectionate terms, which the Indian had addressed to Norah, and, without waiting for an explanation, he launched into a string of invective against both of them, which at once roused all- the innate stubbornness of Norah's nature. Had the colonel known that it was the first letter of the kind his daughter had received, and that it was placed where he found it as a preliminary to submitting it to his perusal, he would, in all probability, have moderated his wrath; but when he called the Indian a boot black and his daughter some names that it would not be polite to set down here, she turned on him indignantly, and declared the young Prince to he a gentleman in every sense of the word, and entirely too high in the social scale to marry a girl like herself. Loyal as the colonel was, he considered his daughter to he a match for a Prince of the royal blood of England, and when he heard her thus humiliate herself, he threatened to disown her, and to lock her up for life in a lunatic asylum.

       Another thing the colonel did not explain to Mickey Morgan was the fact that he had suffered severely from sunstroke, and was liable at times to break into choleric fits, which almost, if not entirely, deprived him of reason. Even his daughter did not know this, for she had spent most of her time away from him — in English and French boarding schools. That there was something the matter with him she guessed, for his humours at times were most extraordinary, though he had hitherto been mildness itself in connection with her. An old friend of the colonel, to whom he had explained his suspicions and fears regarding the Indian, advised him to have a watch set upon his daughter, as he had known an instance where one of the Princes, who respect very little our English marriage customs, had carried away a young English lady to form one amongst a number of other wives in his native country. This friend further recommended that Mickey Morgan, of whom he had heard very favourable accounts, should be introduced into the house as a guest — as a young gentleman of position, and instructed not to watch over the safety of Norah Blundell, but to endeavour to wean her affections from the Indian.

       It was not without considerable trepidation that our hero consented to undertake this part in the drama. Had it been any other young lady in the world he would willingly have undertaken the task, but now, knowing the social position of the girl, he was afraid of betraying his own feelings too strongly, and of getting kicked ignominiously from the house.

       Still, his love, his sweetheart, was in danger of being carried away by "a black," and he would, at any rate, try to save her.

       The colonel bore Mickey away with him, and that evening he was introduced to Norah Blundell as Mr. Ernest Wynne, the son of an old Indian officer. The young lady received him most affably, but poor Mickey could do nothing beyond mutter a few unintelligible words and hold down his head.

       The colonel who had long since recovered his calm, rallied him on his shyness:

       "What; What! The son of my old friend shy at meeting a young lady! Gad, you must take after your mother — she was always a shy little thing — but as for Wynne — however, I'll say nothing more about him."

       The colonel's hearty manner restored in some measure our hero's sell-confidence, and he ventured to answer, with perfect truth, as those readers who have followed the fortunes of Mickey Morgan must know.

       "You forget, sir, that I can remember very little of my parents."

       "True, true; but I remember them, though. Faith, I was once head over ears in love with your mother myself. A sweet little girl, she was, Norah. Now that I look at Ernest here, he has got her eyes, aye, and her mouth, too."

       Norah looked at the features indicated, and thought that it was no wonder her father had been in love with Mr. Wynne's mother. It was not until after dinner that Mickey managed to enter with anything like freedom into the conversation. The colonels champagne put new courage into him, and he chatted with the fair Norah without blushing more than a dozen times.

       Several days went by, and whilst our hero became more at home in his new surroundings he became more and more in love with Norah. Sometimes they walked out together, during which she would either be boisterously merry or despondently absent-minded. During one of her reveries he caught the half-uttered expression "Bother it all," and then the young lady took an unopened letter from the pocket of her dress and tore it up viciously. His quick eye fell on the Oxford post-murk before the work of destruction could be completed. He concluded, reasonably enough, that the letter was from the Prince, and argued to himself that the colonel need have little fear in that quarter after all. A week more passed over, and as Mickey Morgan was walking by himself in the lawn he caught sight of Colonel Blundell's Indian servant in conversation with a man on the road below. Approaching closer, he was able to see that the other also was of the Hindoo race, and no doubt existed in his mind that his hated rival was in front of him. His jealousy and fears made him for once forget prudence, and he walked quickly forward with a view of intercepting the interview, and of catching a nearer view of the Indian Prince. But that individual s sharp eyes at once detected the intruder. Thrusting something into the servant's hands he walked quickly away. Mickey Morgan did not venture to pursue, but walked back to the house and interviewed the colonel.

       "The Indian has just been talking to your servant," he said, "and unless I am much mistaken has given him a letter for your daughter. You will have time to intercept it."

       The colonel's face became so purple that Morgan got frightened. Taking hold of his stick the old gentleman rushed out, and, meeting the servant on the lawn, knocked him to the ground with a single blow. Then stooping down he pulled a letter from his dress, broke the seal, glanced over the contents, and handed it to Mickey, who had followed him out. The words were few, but very much to the point:—

       "My dearest one, my princess, you have not answered my note — perhaps you have not received it. I know you love me as I love you, and I have made all arrangements for our flight to merry India. Meet me to-night outside the entrance gates, and I shall tell you all particulars. So good-bye till then, my love."

       The letter was signed Sujal, and, for the first time, Mickey got to know the name of his rival. Whilst he was perusing the note the colonel had disappeared, muttering as he went, "Not a cent. not a cent" — words which our hero heard but took little notice of at the time. The Indian servant had by this time risen to his feet and departed. Even boys of eighteen can love, and Mickey was now as great a victim of the tender passion as a man of maturer years could be. Love's young dream had come to him in earnest — the love of one who would always be beyond and above him — one whom after that day he might never see again. He pulled Norah Blundell's portrait out of his pocket — he had not returned it to the colonel — covered it with passionate kisses, and then burst out crying. There was a light step behind him. It was Norah — she had seen the portrait and recognised it. For a moment she looked up into the boy's face, then caught a sight of the letter in his hand, snatched it from him, read it, and then, looking at him once more, cried out appealingly:

       "Oh, you cannot think I would do that."

       Mickey, unable to overcome his emotion, ran down the lawn, whilst Norah, weeping bitterly, returned to the house, where, a few minutes later, the colonel locked her in her room.

       Mickey kept blindly on towards Cardiff, every now and again looking back towards the house. He was about to give the last turn, and take his farewell view, when, with a palpitating heart, he saw a volume of smoke and flame come from the colonel's house. With a bound he started to retrace his steps, the flames increasing at every moment. When he came near enough he saw Norah at her bed-room window, looking wild with terror. He was so out of breath that he could scarcely speak, but managed to shout out:

       "Courage! I will save you!"

       The next moment he was rushing up the stairs, passing on his way the dead body of the colonel, who had succumbed to a fit of apoplexy, and at once threw himself against the door of the bedroom. The flames were already approaching, and the smoke was suffocating, but, in spite of all, he remembered his skeleton keys, and, by a happy instinct, at once selected the one which fitted the lock. The next moment Norah Blundeil rushed forward, threw her arms around him, and fainted. When he had carried her to a place of safety he rushed back and dragged her father's dead body outside. During all this he had not caught sight of the Indian servant anywhere, but the two maidservants were already some distance from the house, forgetting all but their own safety in the terror that had seized them.

       Colonel Blundell was buried from a neighbouring hotel. When his affairs became to be investigated not a trace of the considerable fortune he was known to possess could be found, and Norah was left absolutely penniless, Mickey Morgan's interest in that young lady was, however, now greater than ever, as will be proved in our next.

No. 30. — COLONEL BLUNDELL'S FORTUNE.

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       Those who have read our last number will remember how Mickey Morgan fell in love with a photograph, and the strange circumstance that brought him into such close relationship with the original. It will also he borne in mind that when Colonel Blundell's affairs were looked into no trace of the fortune he was known to possess could be found, and his daughter Norah was left penniless. That young lady was now more than seventeen years of age — one year younger than the boy who had so romantically fallen in love with her; and, as may be supposed from one brought up as she had been, was very little fitted to face the world unaided. Our hero. who had all along felt ashamed of the part the colonel had induced him to play in passing for the son of an old Army officer, took the earliest opportunity of explaining to Miss Blundell what his real position was. With that young lady every other feeling was swallowed up by sorrow for the death of her father, and the took less notice of the deception practised upon her than might have been expected. The only wealth she now possessed consisted of a few jewels she happened to carry about her on the day of the fire.

       When the colonel left our hero on the lawn, before being seized with the fit which caused his death, he was heard to mutter the words, "Not a cent; not a cent," and Morgan now began to ponder night and day as to what these words could mean. Did Colonel Blundell mean that he had not a cent. himself, or that he would not leave a cent. to his daughter, on account of her supposed love for the Indian Prince? The latter supposition commended itself more to our detective's consideration, and he was strongly inclined to the belief that the colonel, in his last moments, had hidden away the securities in which his property was supposed to consist. He determined to begin at once an exhaustive search in the neighbourhood of the ruined house. The first thing to be done would be to remove the debris, and before undertaking this work the landlord's permission had to he sought, as well as that of the insurance company. But the difficulty was quickly overcome, and Mickey Morgan had soon half-a-dozen men working under his own superintendence. All the expense he had to bear himself, as Miss Blundell had nothing. What with rewards and fees he had amassed a considerable sum of money, and nothing would have pleased him better than to be able to spend the last penny of it in the service of the sweet young lady with whom he had fallen in love even before ever he had seen her. But of that love he was firmly resolved never to speak. That she knew already what his feelings were he more than suspected. How could she miss knowing, after the scene in which she had found him crying over her portrait? But the grief which had fallen upon her gave him more mastery over himself; and whenever be met her now he was able to treat her with distant, but respectful, familiarity. Miss Blundell had, or was supposed to have, two guardians under her father's will, but as no one knew who these guardians were, and as no will could be found, the circumstance was of little service to her. In the meantime, Mickey Morgan had to think of some means of relieving the young lady, without hurting her feelings. His first thought was to take Mrs. Simmons into his confidence and trust to her woman's tact to be able to transfer a certain sum of money from his pocket to that of Miss Blundell. But, walking one day amongst the debris, another method was suggested to him. One of the men had unearthed an old leather bag which by some means had partly escaped the effects of the fire, and it occurred to Mickey Morgan that, had the bag been filled with sovereigns, it might quite as easily have passed through, and quite as easily have been found. A few hours afterwards he called at the house where Miss Blundell had taken apartments, and, with a radiant and most ingenuous expression of countenance, told that young lady that one of the men had found a bag containing more than a hundred pounds in gold.

       "Here it is," he said, "and I'm sure we shall find some more before many days are over."

       If Miss Blundell had any suspicion of the deception practised upon her, she did not show it. "Oh, how kind you are, Mr. Morgan," she said, "to take such pains about a poor, lonely girl like me — there is no one else in the world who would do anything for me."

       "Nonsense, Miss Blundell. there is not a man in the world, who, knowing you, would not do more. And. besides, I am only doing my duty. Your poor father employed me to protect you from that Indian, and do you think I can be unfaithful to my trust now that he is dead?"

       "But who is going to pay you for all this, Mr. Morgan?"

       "Why, bless me, have I not told you? Your father, before I went to your house, paid me for six months' service, cash down — so you've got to put up with me for four months more."

       This pious lie did not improve upon the young lady. She saw by Mickey's manner that the inspiration to speak so had come to him all of a sudden, and told him so.

       "You think because you are a detective, Mr. Morgan, you can impose upon me; but I know you say that only to please me. I thank you for saying it all the same. Never can I forget the delicacy with which you have treated me all through."

       Mickey blushed, and held down his head in shame. He knew there was no use in trying to convince her on the point, and was afraid, if the conversation went on, she would begin to suspect something regarding the money he had given her.

       "Well, good-bye, Miss Blundell," he said, holding out his hand, "if I don't get up to Craig House those lazy men will do nothing."

       Day after day the work went on, but nothing of the least importance was found. Mickey Morgan was growing sick with anxiety. He was doing no good to Miss Blundell, and was offending his employer, Mr. Norman, who had one or two important cases to investigate, and was continuously urging him to return to his professional duties. At length, the whole of the debris had been removed, and all for nothing. Mickey sat down on the grass, almost crying, his dog "Prince" beside him.

       "Now, what more can we do, "Prince," my lad? Both of us love that young lady, and would do anything in the world to please her — but what can we do? There is not the least use in wagging your tail, doggie; that can help us but little."

       "Prince" barked.

       "Equally fruitless. Now, if that nose of yours were any good you would just smell all over the world until you found Colonel Blundell's box. Don't whine; you can't help me, and I forgive you. You saved my life near that confounded well in Ferndale — the well, by Jingo!" and Mickey Morgan jumped to his feet with a bound.

       Within about fifty yards of Craig House was a disused well, and, thinking of his experiences in connection with the Broad View ghost, it now occurred to Morgan that, in his frenzy, the late colonel might have thrown his strong box to the bottom. The men had not yet gone away from the place, and he ordered two of **** ***** To search the well was, he felt, a forlorn hope, but were it a hundred times more so it should be done. He would have every inch of land in the neighbourhood turned upside down before he would allow Norah Blundell to remain a beggar. Whilst Mickey was thus communing with himself, the object of his meditations had arrived on the scene, and was engaged in conversation with two of the workmen.

       "Which of you," she asked, "found the purse of money?"

       "What purse of money, miss? Not a blessed cent. have any of us found."

       "Do you mean to say you have not found a leather bag containing a number of sovereigns?"

       "We are not thieves, miss. If we had found any money we should have given it to Mr. Morgan. I myself found a leather money-bag, but there was not a farthing in it."

       Miss Blundell turned away her head. There were tears in her eyes, for the truth had dawned upon her. It was his own money that Mickey Morgan had given her. Her emotions were too strong to allow her to pursue the conversation. She knew that her benefactor was to be found behind the walls of her old home, but she did not dare to see him just then. Instead of that she re-traced her steps towards the entrance gates, crying quietly all the time. But there was no bitterness in her tears. For the moment she even forgot the loss of her father in thinking of the friend she had won. A friend? Would he never be anything more than a friend?

       Time would tell. If she could only recover her fortune; then she would act. But now, penniless and worse, what could she do?

       In the meantime the men had arrived with the appliances for exploring the well. Morgan himself insisted on going down. His anxiety would not allow him to remain idle on the top whilst, some one else explored. When "Prince" saw him enter the bucket he barked exultantly, and tried to accompany him. But there was not room for two, and Mickey Morgan descended alone. The air below was foul in the extreme, and it was with difficulty he managed to breathe. For a long time there, was not a word spoken, the men on the top getting nervous at the profound silence. Then from the depths came the words:

       "Haul away!"

       Four men pulled at the windlass, and a minute later a horrible bedraggled figure came in sight. It was the dead body of the Indian servant. At that moment Miss Blundell came once more upon the scene. At sight of the corpse she gave a little spasmodic scream, and then in a frightened voice asked:

       "Who is below?"

       "Mr. Morgan, miss; but we shall soon have him up."

       The bucket was again lowered; there was silence intense as before, and after a still longer interval the order for heaving came, but this time in a much weaker voice.

       The men pulled in the rope desperately, but instead of the well-known figure of Mickey Morgan a stout iron box came to view. Scarcely had they succeeded in placing it on the ground when a cry came from the bottom of the well. They knew too well what it meant, and one of them jumped into the bucket, and was lowered with almost dangerous precipitancy. He was not too soon. Mickey Morgan had already sunk beneath the water, but his rescuer, without leaving the bucket, seized him in his arms, and soon after the two were on the top — the young detective to all appearance dead. When Miss Blundell saw him, a terrible pallor overspread her face. She did not lose her presence of mind, however, but gave directions to the men as to the quickest means of restoring animation. In that moment fortune, father, and all were forgotten. She only thought of the boy before her — who had loved her so well, and risked so much for her sake. But Mickey Morgan was not dead. In a comparatively few minutes he began to breathe and almost immediately opened his eyes. This was not a time for conventionalities, and Norah Blundell cared little about them in any case. She stooped down and covered the mud-bespattered face with warm kisses. She kissed him on the lips and the eyes and cheeks, and Mickey Morgan jumped to his feet, feeling himself for the first time in his life — a man.

       The workers politely withdrew to a distance.

       "Did you think, you poor, innocent boy," she said, "that I did not know who you were all the time? Do you think I did not recognise in the Mr. Ernest Wynne, my poor father introduced to me, the well-known Mickey Morgan, whom the photographer told me had fallen madly in love with my portrait. Why, my dear, I watched you one day myself from inside the shop, looking at my grand picture with all the love in the world in your eyes."

       How Mickey Morgan's heart thrilled when he heard those simple words, "My dear," but he only said quite simply:—

       "You knew me all the time?"

       "Yes, dearest, and loved you. And now you have given me back my fortune, and, some day, when we are both a little older you will give me yourself."

       Mickey's heart was too full for speech, but his eyes told well enough what his feelings were.

       Whether the Indian servant had fallen into the well, or whether he had been thrown in by the colonel, will never be known. But of the Indian Prince neither Mickey Morgan nor his sweetheart ever heard again.

No. 31. — MYSTERIOUS POISONING CASE.

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       The post-mortem examination on the body of the late Mr. James Jevons showed beyond all doubt that he had died through the effects of a dose of arsenic. Whether it was a case of suicide or he had been deliberately or accidentally poisoned there was little evidence to show. Suspicion pointed in various directions, but most of all towards Mrs. Jevons, who it was known did not live on the best of terms with her husband. That the fault was not hers, all her neighbours and friends knew. She had suffered long and patiently from the brutality of the deceased, and it was this very fact which now made some of them suspect her of the crime. The worm will turn, and Mrs. Jevons had turned at last. Many of those who suspected her most blamed her least; it might even be said that some of them applauded her, so keen did they resent the many unbearable indignities her husband had heaped upon her.

       Amongst those who suspected Mrs. Jevons were the police entrusted with the task of investigating the affair, but for a long time they could find no evidence against her. Indeed, the testimony given at the inquest showed that she had nursed her husband through a long illness with the utmost fidelity and untiring patience. This evidence was given incidentally by the doctor, who declared that had it not been for Mrs. Jevons's untiring efforts the deceased gentleman would have succumbed long before. This, however, did not clear her in the eyes of the police or of her friends, for, they argued, it might have been done for effect, and there may have been connivance between herself and the doctor, or the latter might have made the statement purely out of pity. One's, friends will say anything on such occasions, and, as for the police, why it is their duty to suspect everybody. As may be supposed, Mrs. Jevons's candid friends did not allow her to remain long in ignorance as to the suspicions entertained regarding her, and the poor woman was so affected that she was afraid or ashamed to show herself in public. As a matter of fact, had she done so her every movement would have been shadowed, for the police kept a watchful eye on the house. The registries kept by all the chemists as to the sale of poisons had all been examined — that is, all except one kept by a certain Mr. Corland, who had shut up shop and left the neighbourhood some two years before. This gentleman the police found had removed to Bristol, and they were not long in tracing him to his new abode. His register showed that he had on various occasions supplied Mrs. Jevons with small quantities of arsenic, and a month before her husband's death she had called upon him at Bristol for the usual quantity. The doses he supplied were not sufficient to cause death, and were invariably purchased in connection with some other drugs, the whole of which, together with some mixture of her own, Mrs. Jevons said she made up into a face wash. That Mrs. Jevons was in the habit of using a wash of some kind he had every reason to know. He had never doubted it, and would not doubt it now. Asked by the police how many of the doses he had supplied would if taken together, be sufficient to cause death, he answered "five or six." The police, knowing already that it was Mrs. Jevons who had administered the last dose of medicine to the deceased, had now, they thought, sufficient evidence to warrant them in applying for a warrant for the lady's arrest.

       Very quietly they carried her away one day in a cab, and the next morning she was examined before the magistrates. The evidence looked black enough against her, and the general, opinion was that, whether innocent or guilty, she would eventually be convicted of the crime. The only motive she could have, the public, were willing enough to admit, was the desire to be free from her husband, for she gained nothing in a material sense by his death. On the contrary, under Mr. Jevons's will she was left with a miserable pittance of eighty pounds a year, whilst the bulk of his property went to his next-of-kin, a ne'er-do-weel, who was at that time supposed to be wandering somewhere in South America. Mrs. Jevons was committed to the assizes, bail being peremptorily refused by the magistrates.

       Even those who believed Mrs. Jevons guilty felt a certain amount of sympathy for her on account of the character of her husband; and when it was known that Mickey Morgan had been employed to work on her behalf there was a general feeling of relief. Even were she guilty, there were those who believed that Mickey could prove her innocent, and most people hoped he would be able to do so. But our hero himself had very little hopes. He was now a man with a sweetheart, and could think of very little beyond the charms of Norah Blundell. But that young lady herself urged him to put on his war paint at once, and to set about the task of clearing the accused woman.

       "Do you know, Mickey, I shan't think you a bit nice, until you can prove to everybody that Mrs. Jevons is innocent. But when you come to me triumphant, perhaps, I shall give you a kiss? Whole millions of them. Mickey, my dear — and now, here is one on account."

       Mickey thought one very little to receive towards an account of a million, so took half a dozen.

       Never during his very successful career as a detective had he to undertake a case which offered so few chances of a favourable solution for his client as the present one did. But in spite of everything he should have to go on with the case; his duty urged him and his sweetheart insisted. Where should he begin? In cases of the kind the usual thing was to find out who would benefit most by the death of the victim. In this case the next-of-kin was far away; perhaps, dead. He had been last heard of in Buenos Ayres. and soon after the reading of the will the lawyers had telegraphed an advertisement to the "Standard" and other English papers in that city, but no reply had been received. From this Mickey argued to himself that the heir, Sylvester Jevons, was either dead or had left the Argentine. Mickey Morgan had been told by one who had lived in that part of the world that a personal advertisement in a Buenos Ayres paper would in the course of a week be brought to the notice of the object in whatever part of the country he might live. But a month elapsed, and still no word was heard. Then about the end of the fifth week a wire was received: "Seen advertisement, am coming home in Thespes." It was laconic enough, but where each word costs at the rate of seven or eight shillings brevity can be excused.

       Mickey Morgan found himself absolutely hopeless in his attempt to clear Mrs. Jevons. He saw no chance of finding a clue of any kind unless the appearance of the heir should suggest something to him. The long silence in regard to the advertisement had suggested a queer thought. What if the heir had been in England at the time of Mr. Jevons's death? The fact of more than a month having elapsed before a reply was received had suggested to him this possibility. Sylvester Jevons might easily have returned to Buenos Ayres after his uncle's death in time to send the telegram quoted above. Indeed the delay would argue in favour of this possibility. Still a hundred reasons might be given for this delay — but in the meantime he would go to Southampton and examine the shipping lists. He did not think it possible, though, that, if Sylvester Jevons had paid a visit to this country and returned to Buenos Ayres he would have used his own name. He had managed to get a portrait of Jevons as he appeared five years before, but he did not count upon this as likely to help him much. A man might change a good deal in five years, and, besides, it seemed probable enough that the man whom, for want of any other clue, he was bound to suspect would in the case of his returning home for an unlawful purpose adopt some kind of disguise.

       Arriving at Southampton he found that a Lampport and Holt boat had left that port two days after the murder. He showed the portrait to the clerk who had cleared the ship, but that functionary could not remember having seen anyone that might be taken for the original. Neither did the name Jevons appear on the list of passengers. Mickey returned to Cardiff, and determined to lie quiet until the Thespes should arrive, when he would return to Southampton once more. During the ensuing weeks the time hung heavily on his hands, but the longed-for day at last came. They got the clearing clerk to stay with him as the passengers disembarked, hoping that amongst them he should recognise any one who had made the outward journey a month previously. His expectations were, to some extent, realised. The clerk thought he recognised a young man who had booked a passage with him on the day the ship sailed. He was not sure, but felt certain there was something in the carriage and general deportment that he recognised, though the face was different. The outward-bound passenger wore a long beard, but in other respects the individual under observation might have passed for the same. The clerk had brought with him the list of passengers, and, looking through, he remembered that the suspected man had booked under the name of Sawlor, a most peculiar name he remarked at the time. "Sawlor, Sawlor," mused Micky Morgan; "where had he heard that name before? Yes, he recognised it now: it was that of a quack doctor who had pursued his vocation in the Hayes at Cardiff a couple of months previously. The next step was to find under what name the young gentleman had travelled in the Thespes. There were only a few first-class passengers. so this was comparatively easy. The name was no other than that of Sylvester Jevons.

       Mickey Morgan had no further business in Southampton, so he returned to Cardiff by the next train. He was lucky enough to see Mr. Jevons on the platform, and naturally entered the same carriage with him. and tried to begin a conversation. This was difficult, for Jevons proved talkative enough, and began re-counting some of his exploits amongst the Gauchos of the Pampas. In answer to Mickey Morgan's question as to the length of time he had been away from England, he answered five years.

       "Never caught sight of the old shores for all that time, and heard precious little English spoken," he said.

       Mickey Morgan had his own opinion on this point. In fact, he now felt confident that Sawlor and Jevons were one. He had listened one night to the quack doctor as he shouted out the value of the wonderful medicine, the secret of which he himself had learned from an Indian in the Gran Chaco, and now felt certain that Jevons's voice was exactly that of the quack doctor. The face he did not feel sure about, but that had been partly recognised by the clerk at Southampton, and no doubt he would be able to find someone in Cardiff who could complete the identification.

       But when that was done it was still to be proved that Jevons had any connection with his uncle's death. The circumstance that he had quitted Cardiff immediately after the murder, and a couple of days later had quitted the country, would tell strongly against him. At any rate. Mickey Morgan now felt assured that poor Mrs. Jevons would not be hanged, and it would go hard with him if he could not now get up sufficient evidence to acquit her.

       Arriving at Cardiff, he went at once to interview the servant who had assisted Mrs. Jevons in nursing the deceased.

       "Are you certain," he asked, "that Mr. Jevons took no medicine except what had been prescribed by the doctor?"

       "Not that I know of, sir."

       "Now, just listen to me — are you prepared to swear that Mr. Jevons did not take some of the medicine sold by that quack doctor, Sawlor?"

       The servant blushed furiously and looked confused.

       "Ah, I see you know all about it," said Mickey. "Now, speak out plainly, and you may be the means of saving your mistress from the scaffold — how did you get the medicine?"

       "Well, it was this way, sir. I had heard a lot about the cures made by Mr. Sawlor, and one day a bill and a ticket were placed under the door. The bill said that Sawlor would guarantee to cure anyone suffering from rheumatism with a dozen doses of his medicine, and that he would give relief with a single dose. Now, master was suffering from rheumatic fever, and I thought I should like to try what this medicine could do for him. Mr. Brown in the next street had found wonderful relief from it, and in any case I thought it could do master no harm. The ticket stated that anyone presenting it to Mr. Sawlor should receive a sample of the medicine free."

       "Did anyone else receive these tickets?"

       "Yes, sir. I believe they were delivered at all the houses."

       "And so you went to Sawlor for his remedy, and afterwards administered it to Mr. Jevons."

       "Yes; Mr. Sawlor himself gave me the little bottle."

       "Did he ask you who it was for?"

       "No he looked at the ticket, and then, after hesitating a little, handed me the bottle."

       "Was there a mark on the ticket?"

       "There was a printed number — that was all."

       "You say the people next door also got a ticket — did it have a number?"

       "I cannot say, sir; but I know they did not use it."

       "A good job for them, perhaps. But what did you do with the bottle after you had emptied it?"

       "I threw it outside — it might be possible to find it yet amongst the rubbish."

       The bottle was found, and in a short time afterwards was in the hands of the analyst.

       The assizes were to come on the following week, and Mickey Morgan had word sent to the prisoner that she was not to lose heart — that things were turning in her favour, and he hoped to see her set at liberty at once.

       The analyst in his report stated that he was able to detect faint traces of arsenic at the bottom of the bottle submitted to him. Mickey had now his chain of evidence complete, having came across a couple of men who were able to recognise in Jevons, the quack doctor, who had plied his trade in Cardiff a couple of months before.

       When Mrs. Jevons's case came on she was formally discharged, and the same morning Sylvester Jevons was arrested, and conviction soon followed. In the confession he made afterwards he stated that he had been employed by a quack in America, who had left him a stock of his medicine with which to begin business in England, and coming home, and hearing that his uncle was recovering from an attack of rheumatic fever, and that out of spite to his wife he had left him — Sylvester — his fortune, it occurred to him to poison his uncle by means of one of the samples which it had been his employer's custom to distribute. The ticket he had sent to Mr. Jevons's house had a private mark, so that when the servant applied for the medicine he handed her a bottle containing some arsenic, which he had already prepared for the occasion

No. 32. — AN UNDERTAKER'S MISTAKE.

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       Mr. Elton Griffin was a fashionable undertaker. He would not undertake to be responsible for the proper burial of anyone who during his life had not been classed amongst "the nobility and gentry." A poor man he would not know how to bury. How any undertaker's bill could possibly be made out under forty guineas was a puzzle to him. He said so at least, and his statement was borne out by the fact that he had never been known to come under that amount. True it was that he had been known in more than one case to reduce the sum by as much as 50 per cent., but this he did with such a good grace that the mournful relatives of the defunct were in many cases shamefaced at the meanness they had shown in disputing the accounts of so kind a gentleman. But as Mr. Griffin was still able to show a profit of £10 on each of such transactions his leniency was not likely to drive him into bankruptcy.

       "Oh, all right, twenty guineas will do. I never charge less than forty, but, under the circumstances, we can't be hard, and, perhaps, the next time —–"

       But here Mr. Griffin would interrupt himself and express the pious wish that many a happy year should pass over the heads of his good friends before they should have occasion to use his services again.

       Such customers liked his manner, and were, as a rule, rather flattered than anything else that he should consider them equal to a forty-guinea funeral. These tactics he only indulged in, however, when his clients were just bordering on the ranks amongst which he did not choose to find his customers. When really wealthy people called in his services his charges were as reasonable as those of any other man of his trade or his profession. He much preferred the latter term, and argued that a man dedicated to the performance of the last solemn offices for the dead had a right to be classed as high as the doctor who killed. In short, Mr. Griffin respected himself, and was generally respected. He had gone through life with an unstained reputation until that awkward affair connected with the funeral of Miss Alice Ardell.

       That young lady was the daughter of one Glamorganshire squire and the intended bride of another. She was good-looking, amiable, rich, and until one fatal day when she was suddenly attacked with influenza had always enjoyed good health. Like consumption, influenza, has no pity for blue eyes and golden hair, and the fair Alice, when her hopes of this life were highest, was summoned to a better world. Her short life had been all brightness, and she had loved it. She loved her father and mother, her dogs, her horses, but most of all she loved the man who was to have been her partner for life. Arthur Osborne, the young squire in question, could not believe that his sweetheart was about to die. He cursed the family doctor as an ass, and sent for one of the leading London physicians. The verdict was the same — there was no hope. When the young man got to know the opinion of the London doctor he refused to be comforted. He told his mother emphatically that on the day Alice died his life should also end. He could not live without her, and would not if he could. His friends feared for his reason, and determined to keep a sharp watch on him after the fatal moment had arrived. But ail of a sudden he became calm, and was even able to go into the sick room without giving way to any of those outbursts which before had given so much alarm. When poor Alice saw him a gleam of love for a moment illumined the fading eyes. The two were left alone.

       "Arthur, dearest," she said, "you must promise me two things — one is that you do not grieve much for me; the other is that you take your last look at my face in the little cemetery chapel."

       "I promise you, dearest."

       "There is another thing, Arthur. I wish the rings you have given me to be buried with me, and, oh! Arthur, if you love me, you will refrain from any outbursts such as those you have been subject to these last few days. We shall meet in Heaven, and do not let any sinful act of yours put a bar to our meeting there."

       "I have promised not to grieve for you — how could I keep that promise and live on?"

       The despair in his face was too much for the invalid. She closed her eyes, and seemed to faint away. Soon after, however, she opened them once, gave him a last appealing look, whispered the single word "Remember," and then passed away.

       The parents had entered the room in time to hear her last word, and when they knew all to be over almost by main force drew the unhappy man from the room. The next few days he was stolidly calm, and his friends feared that he still meditated self-murder. Noticing their watchful, anxious looks, he suspected their thoughts, and tried to re-assure them.

       "Don't fear for me," he said, somewhat hastily. "I have promised her that is gone not to do anything that would grieve her, and I will keep my promise."

       The day of the funeral arrived, and, according to her expressed wishes, the coffin was opened at the cemetery, where her lover and friends were to take their last look. Arthur Osborne took her cold hand in his and raised it to his lips. At that moment the disconsolate mother noticed the absence of the rings which it had been the deceased girl's wish to have buried with her. They had been on her hands when Mr. Griffin slightly fastened the lid of the coffin at the house. Everyone had seen them, but where were they now? Arthur Osborne's calm all this time seemed something unnatural. Where was all the desperation his friends had expected to see? They knew soon enough, however, for, letting go the hand, he gave a horrible laugh and ran from the cemetery. Some of the younger men followed him, whilst the majority remained with the dead. Even at that solemn moment the loss of the rings had to be considered. It was the poor girl's wish that they should be buried with her, and if not found now that wish could not be fulfilled. Mr. Ardell became excited and accused the undertaker of having appropriated them. Mr. Griffin turned pale with amazement and indignation.

       "I forgive that accusation, sir, because your grief has distracted you," he exclaimed, "but had such an accusation been brought against me in any other place you should have to answer for it."

       Mr. Ardell answered hotly, and were it not for the interference of the clergyman a serious scandal might have ensued.

       The coffin was searched closely, but no rings could be found. Mr. Ardell burst out once more, and swore, with tears of sorrow and desperation in his eyes, that the body should not be interred until the rings were found. Mr. Griffin was trembling violently all the time, but the clergyman, and his own fear of a scandal, kept him from replying to Mr. Ardell.

       Osborne and his pursuers had not yet come back, when it was hurriedly decided that the interment should take place, Mr. Ardell protesting all the time that when he had made Griffin return the rings he should have the body exhumed and his daughter's last wishes carried out.

       For three or four days Arthur Osborne lost the use of his reason, and then, under the skilful treatment of a London specialist, was restored to health once more. When he heard of the loss of the rings, he was astounded, and, like Mr. Ardell, inclined to suspect the worthy undertaker. Summoning all the calmness he was master of, he called upon the latter one day.

       "Look here, Griffin," he said, "I am going to offer £150 reward for the recovery of those rings, which is considerably more than their intrinsic value — will you undertake the matter for me?"

       "Why should I do so, Mr. Osborne? By heaven, I believe you also suspect me — do you?"

       "Well, I shall not say that, but look here. Five or six of us saw the rings as you bent over to fasten down the lid; when opened again they were gone. Don't you think there is room for suspicion?"

       Mr. Griffin had sorrowfully to confess that there was, but swore that he had no knowledge in the world as to how they had disappeared.

       The matter got about the town, and more than one of the best funerals had been given lately to Mr. Griffin's most formidable rival. He felt himself under a cloud, and thought of retiring from business. But then he knew that were he to adopt such a course he should carry suspicion with him to the end of his days. He should first clear himself, and then leave the undertaking business in other hands. This decision was strengthened by a scene he had with his favourite daughter that same day. She came into the house crying bitterly:

       "Oh, father," she exclaimed, "I shall never be able to show my head in Cardiff again. Two horrid boys followed me along the street shouting: 'Who stole the rings from the corpse?' Oh, it was shameful!"

       Mr. Griffin's indignation was beyond all bounds — he could not even speak in the fury that seized him. Rushing out of the house, he flew at once to Mickey Morgan's office. As soon as he had explained himself, that young gentleman said he was sorry he could not undertake to work on his behalf as Mr. Arthur Osborne had already commissioned him to investigate the matter.

       "And prove me guilty, I suppose?" asked Mr. Griffin wrathfully.

       "No; he simply wants me to find the rings — but how am I do to so heaven alone knows."

       "Look here, Mr. Morgan; if you find those rings I will add twenty pounds to whatever fee Mr. Osborne has promised you."

       Mickey Morgan eyed him sharply, but the undertaker bore the scrutiny without flinching. Mr. Osborne had not exactly said to Morgan that he was to prove Mr Griffin guilty, but all the same he had indicated to him where his search would more likely prove fruitful. Our detective was a very keen judge of character, and he now came to the conclusion that, except in a moment of absolute madness, Mr. Griffin was not likely to have been guilty of such a crime. Still, he was retained by the other party, so should have to follow instructions.

       He had not any great interest in the case, and, in fact, saw little hopes of solving it, as whoever had taken the rings must have put them in a place of safety before this. But Mr. Griffin explained the scene with his daughter, and our hero's sympathies were at once aroused. He was always more interested in cases where fair ladies were concerned, and before Mr. Griffin left he had promised to do all in his power to clear his name.

       Arthur Osborne, not having been in a position to explain all that had occurred on the day of the funeral, had promised Mickey to secure him an interview with Mrs. Ardell, and soon alter Mr. Griffin's departure he took a train out to where that lady lived. She gave a very dear account of everything that had happened at the cemetery, including some particulars as to the temporary aberrations that had seized Mr. Osborne. This gentleman had, it seemed, run straight to the house of the family doctor, defying all the efforts of his pursuers to capture him. What had induced him to go there will never be known, though he himself fancies it was with a preconceived desire of begging or stealing some poison to put an end to his days. Scarcely had he entered when he sank upon the floor exhausted, and was soon afterwards carried to his own house, where he remained until the doctors pronounced him completely cured. All this afforded very little help to Mickey Morgan, but he had everything in his mind all the same, determining to meditate upon the matter at leisure. That same evening a thought struck him which sent him at once to Mr. Osborne's house. The young gentleman was not at home, but the butler recommended him to wait, as he was expected every minute. The butler was curious — he wanted to know exactly who Mickey Morgan was, and what, was his business with Mr Osborne: but Mickey was too old a bird to be easily drawn. In any case, he did not like this oily butler; he appeared altogether too sly. When Mr. Osborne came in he greeted our hero warmly:—

       "I hope to God you have found those rings," he exclaimed, even before he had relinquished the detective's hand.

       Mickey Morgan noticed the butler give a start as his master spoke.

       "No, I wish I had sir — but I want to speak a few words to you privately."

       The butler withdrew.

       "Can you let me have for one moment the clothes you wore on the day of the funeral?"

       "Certainly, but in the name of common sense for what purpose?"

       Mickey thought he heard a noise outside the door, and, darting lightly forward, discovered the butler in a listening attitude outside.

       "What the devil are you doing there?" shouted Osborne. "Fetch me the clothes I wore at the funeral."

       "I would rather go with him, sir — will you come?"

       The two ascended the stairs, led by the butler. As soon as the clothes were placed in Morgan's hands he proceeded at once to search the pockets, but found them absolutely empty. All this time the butler looked pale and alarmed. When Mickey Morgan found his search useless he turned sharply on the trembling servant beside him, and asked:

       "What have you done with those rings?"

       "What rings?" responded the butler, recovering some-of his assurance.

       "I wish to examine that man's box, sir," said Mickey, turning to Osborne.

       "All right," responded the gentleman, with a perplexed countenance.

       "No, no; I confess; I have the rings, but only kept them out of the way for fear the sight of them should disturb Mr. Osborne."

       A few minutes afterwards the rings were at Mr. Osborne's lips, and his body shaking with sobs.

       "My God, I believe I can remember now — some mad idea came into my mind — and I snatched them off. What for God alone knows, for in my senses I would not have disobeyed her wishes for the world. But I am glad Griffin is not guilty, and shall soon right him in the eyes of the public."

       He kept his word. Mr. Griffin was restored to the good opinion of his fashionable clients, and Miss Griffin, no longer fears to go alone through the streets of Cardiff.

No. 33. — A STRIKE OUTRAGE.

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       Most of the colliers in the Rhondda had come out on strike for a rise of wages. There were one or two pits, however, which still kept working, the men not having been able to make up their minds to join their comrades in what they feared would he a very long fight. This want of spirit roused a great deal of indignation amongst the majority of the colliers, and some of them became so excited that outrages were feared, and many extra police drafted into the district. At the Glenwen Pits not only did the old hands continue to work, but many new men came in from other districts, so that the output of the colliery was almost doubled. The "knobsticks," of course, were special objects of hate to the men on strike, and many collisions took place between isolated members of the two parties. Both police and public feared that at any a general riot would ensue, and the "knobsticks" were strongly recommended not to frequent the public-houses, and, above all, to keep away from The Tumble at Pontypridd. This advice was only followed to a limited extent, for, whatever else the new-comers might be, they were patriotic enough to set aside a considerable portion of their earnings to be devoted to the noble object of keeping the income of her Majesty's revenue at its normal proportions.

       One night on a lonely part of the road between Pontypridd and Porth a party of strikers encountered half-a-dozen "knobsticks." A free fight took place, and one of the latter was left dead on the road — stabbed to the heart. The body was soon afterwards found by a policeman and carried to the station.

       For several days no particulars of the fight could be obtained, nor any evidence as to the identity of those who had participated in it. At last, amongst the shingle in the river bed, Constable Jervis found a knife covered with what appeared to be blood stains, and which was identified as belonging to a collier named Evan Slagg, who was that night arrested and the following morning brought before the magistrates. Slagg was a married man with a family of young children, and when the news of his arrest got abroad much sympathy was expressed with his wife. He was not known to be a quarrelsome man; on the contrary, his patience under provocation was remarkable. Still, there were those who had seen him roused, and amongst them were one or two who declared him to be just the kind of man who, once in a row, would be likely to go to extremes. Having found one of the rioters, the police were not long in discovering the others, and were able to bring forward abundant evidence to justify the magistrates in sending Slagg to the assizes. Three of the "knobsticks" identified him as one of the party who had attacked them, whilst one of them swore positively he saw him with a knife in his hand. Some of his comrades had to admit that he was amongst them during the row, but, instead of being a provoking party, they said he did all in his power to restrain the fury of the combatants on both sides. The prisoner himself admitted that the knife was his, that he carried it in his pocket on the night of the murder, but positively asserted that he had neither drawn it upon anyone nor even remembered that he had it. When he got home he missed it, and concluded that it had been lost during the scuffle. When the magistrates announced their decision to send him for trial, he half turned to the spectators in court, and exclaimed:

       "I don't mind for myself, but God help my wife and family."

       Mrs. Slagg was in court with her youngest baby in her arms, and at these words she burst into convulsive tears, and had to be carried outside by some of her neighbours. A strange thing about the case was that no one seemed to know who the murdered man was. He came to the neighbourhood at the beginning of the strike, a complete stranger, gave the name of John Leech, and no one knew anything further. It was supposed that he had come from somewhere in the North; because, though he knew his work well, he seemed rather surprised at the custom prevailing amongst the Welsh colliers of washing themselves all over every night, and absolutely refused to conform to it. Even on the night of his murder, though all his "butties" had appeared in their Sunday faces, he still retained his war paint. His landlady and others remonstrated with him over this matter, but he took no heed. The landlady was most concerned for her bed linen, but his fellow-workmen urged that to appear in public covered with coal-dust was to advertise himself as a "knobstick," and to provoke the strikers to attack him.

       "Let them attack me," he answered; "I can look after myself, and what I never did in England I am not going to do in Wales."

       Many people now thought that it was this very temerity which caused him to be singled out for a fatal attack, and were half inclined to say, "Serve him right."

       Weeks flew over, and the police had given over working in the matter. They had their case complete. and it was known that the general opinion amongst them was that Slagg would be hanged. In the meantime, some charitable ladies looked after poor Mrs. Slagg and her little ones, and, both during the strike and after it had finished, she saw herself in no need of food or clothing. But for all that, as was natural enough, Mrs. Slagg was sinking under the weight of her misery. It never for one moment entered her mind that her husband could be guilty.

       "Why," she used to exclaim, "he could not kill a fly; and as for committing murder I should as soon suspect-my youngest child."

       Mickey Morgan, of course, had heard of the case, but took little more interest in it than any other member of the public. One day, however, his sweetheart, Norah Blundell, introduced the subject.

       "I wonder, dear," she said, "if that poor man in the Rhondda is really guilty? If not, what a terrible thing to hanged innocently."

       "We shall know more when the trial comes on. Men are not often hanged innocently, and if there is a doubt in the case his lawyer you may depend will be able to make the most of it."

       But when the trial really did come or, neither judge nor jury seemed to have any doubt. Slagg was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged within a month of that date. The poor fellow seemed dazed at the verdict, and, when asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon him, answered simply:

       "I am not afraid of death as long as my wife and little ones are looked after; but, as God is my judge, I never drew a knife upon anyone neither then nor at any other time. I was quite cool; I did not know Leech, had no antipathy against him; I did not see the blow struck, and would have tried to prevent it had I seen it. But I suppose I must die, all the same; I would rather do that than be in the place of the man who really committed the murder. May nod forgive him."

       There was great emotion in court, and amongst those whose eyes were moist with tears was Mickey Morgan, who, at the special request of his sweetheart, had gone to witness the trial. Mickey was emotional and impulsive, and perhaps too ready to believe in the innocence of others. But hitherto he had found his instincts to be fairly correct, and now had come to the conclusion that the condemned man was innocent. That same evening he expressed this opinion to Miss Blundell, and that young lady strongly urged him to take up the case in the interests of the condemned man, and try to prove his innocence. As he was already half determined to do so, he at once consented, and the next day went to see Mrs. Slagg. That poor woman was able to give him no assistance beyond what the sight of her distress did to give additional ardour to his determination to help her. He next went to examine the clothes of the murdered man, which the police had retained, but found no clue except that supplied by a solitary button which bore the name of a firm of tailors in Wigan. As this had been already noticed by the police, and even communicated to the papers, our hero could not build much hopes upon it. Still, it was better than no clue at all. and he determined to take it with him as well as a piece of the cloth, and see what information the Wigan tailors could give him. The police not being very much concerned to trace the identity of the murdered man had not troubled much to follow up this clue, and, besides, they argued, reasonably enough, that being a solitary button, amongst a number of others without name, the chances were that it was no clue at all.

       However, Mickey Morgan's object was different from that of the police; so one morning he walked into the tailoring establishment in Wallgate. Wigan, and asked to see the manager. The owner of the firm, Mr. Anderton, was also manager, and when he heard what the detective's business was he replied that he had already seen the statement in the newspapers regarding the button, but that he could not see how, by such a small article, he could assist in finding out who the murdered man was. When he saw the button, however, and the cloth to which it was attached, he pondered deeply. Mickey Morgan closely scrutinised his countenance, and felt sure that the tradesman was pursuing some curious train of thought.

       "Look here," said Mr. Anderton at last; "this kind of button we have not used for more than eight years, whilst I believe this cloth was bought in my establishment within the last twelve months. Of course I am not absolutely certain on the latter point, but nearly so. The cloth belonged to a stock lot I bought from a Dewsbury firm, and, although it is quite possible that some other firms might have the same article — still it is not probable — and I do not believe it is so."

       "Have you a record of those to whom you sold this cloth?"

       "No; I had the whole lot made up into R.M.'s — ready-mades — and sold them over the counter."

       This was all the information Mickey Morgan was able to obtain just then, beyond the name of the firm from whom the cloth had been bought. A letter to Dewsbury brought him the information that the whole of the pattern in question had been sold to Mr. Anderton, so that he found the sphere of his present inquiry circumscribed to Wigan.

       That night Mickey pondered long over the subject, and all at once an inspiration came to him which set him longing for the morning to arrive. His train of thought was this:—

       "Here is a button, bought eight years ago, and a piece of cloth purchased within the last twelve months. It is clear that the button must have been cut off an old suit to re-place one on a new one. It is not usual for men to keep eight-year-old suits about them, and it looks very much as if the wearer had been enjoying the hospitality of a prison in the interval. Eight years ago he bought a suit, was condemned to seven years imprisonment, came out in six, wore his old clothes for a time, and then bought another suit. If that is not the exact state of affairs I'm a Dutchman — and now the quicker the morning comes the better."

       A visit to the police-station brought him the information that about six and a half years previously a certain Sam Moon was condemned to seven years' penal servitude for the manslaughter of one Aleck Caffray; that he had been liberated, and after reporting himself once to the Wigan police left the neighbourhood, and had not been heard of since. A further visit to the tailor's convinced him that he was on the right track. Mr. Anderton remembered that Moon had been a customer of his both before and after his incarceration, and one of the assistants was able to state positively that he was one of those who had purchased a suit made from the cloth in question. This much ascertained, Mickey set himself to find out something of the convict's movements. A sister of his still lived in Wigan, but she had not heard a word from her brother since he left the town. When shown the piece of cloth and the button she identified both. She remembered even cutting the button off the old suit and sewing it on the new.

       "And now," said Mickey, "had your brother any enemies in Wigan?"

       "He had one great enemy of whom he was always afraid — that was Tom Caffray, the brother of the man who had been killed in the row. Tom swore over and over again that he would have revenge for his brother's death."

       "And where is this Tom Caffray now?"

       "He lives in this very street. I saw him a few days ago, and was surprised, for I had heard he had gone from the town."

       A few hours later Mickey was able to make Tom Caffray's acquaintance at a neighbouring public-house. In the course of a general conversation, induced by a liberal supply of drink, Mickey was able to get up a discussion as to the respective merits of Wigan and Welsh coal. Caffray's sole contribution to the debate was that Welsh coal was all right, but it was too damned dusky.

       "Have you ever worked in a Welsh pit?" asked Mickey, innocently.

       "Never," said Caffray, "but I've known those who have, and I've seen Welsh coal in plenty."

       "Why, what are you talking about, Tom?" said another. "Why, you told me other day you had worked there."

       Caffray, however, denied having said so, but before he left the public-house Mickey Morgan was able to convince himself that Caffray had been absent from Wigan at the time of the murder in the Rhondda. and had returned soon after. A telegram to Wales brought up one of the "knobsticks" who had been in the row the night of the murder. Mickey put him into a good disguise, and once more went to seek Caffray. They found him in the same public-house, and, by a liberal expenditure of cash in the shape of drinks, got him into a more talkative humour. This time Mickey Morgan got one of the company to mention the name of Moon the man who had killed Caffray's brother.

       "Can you bring him in?" asked the detective, "I have never seen anyone who has killed a man; and I am prepared to pay for a couple of gallons of beer for the sight."

       "By G—d," exclaimed Caffray, who was now violently drunk, "you will never see him."

       "Why, does he not live here?"

       "He lives in h—ll," answered Caffray, staggering out of the house.

       Mickey's companion had at once recognised Caffray as being one of those who had taken part in the row on the occasion of the murder.

       "And, what's more," he exclaimed, "I believe it is he who killed that man. I remember now that the dead man wanted to shun his company, and I remember too it was this Caffray who had struggled with Slagg — he must have taken the knife out of his pocket."

       Mickey Morgan imparted his information to the police with the request that they would not lose sight of Caffray until he would be able to take action in the matter. Another week's work brought several corroborating details, and the result was that Caffray was arrested on suspicion. Several blood-stains, partly obliterated, were found upon his clothes, and he was brought back to Wales.

       When Mickey Morgan became convinced that he had caught the right man, he sent the following telegram to Mrs. Slagg:—

       "Cheer up. Have found real murderer. Your husband will be released without delay."

       So it proved. The Home Secretary at first gave a respite, and in due course came the Queen's pardon.

       When Mickey first saw his sweetheart after the successful issue of his investigations she told him she was proud of him, and rewarded him in that pleasant way that only sweethearts can reward. As for poor Slagg and his wife. they professed, and still profess, their willingness to die for him whenever he calls upon them for that method of showing their gratitude.

No. 34. — A SILVER CROWN.

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       Mickey Morgan was approaching the end of his career as a detective, when the strange and momentous adventure in connection with the silver crown took place. He had been called over to Ireland to investigate an agrarian outrage, of which a certain Captain Blundell, a distant relative of his sweetheart, had been the victim. The captain was returning on horseback one night from the town of Thurles at a fast trot, when, passing along a road lined at each side with overhanging beeches, a shot was fired at him, and the next moment he was lying senseless on the road. Not from the effects of the shot, however, for the bullet had passed harmlessly over his head, but because of a rope which, having been stretched across the road, dragged him violently from the saddle. Captain Blundell was not considered a particularly bad landlord, but, like the great majority of his class, he had not escaped a conflict with his tenants. That the outrage of which he had been the victim could he nothing less than agrarian he himself thought, and the police believed. He had no private enemies, and the aggressor or aggressors could not have been robbers, for they left untouched a pocket-book which contained more than a hundred pounds in gold and note. The only thing the captain missed was a silver crown to which he attached a kind of sentimental interest. It was given to him by his relative, Colonel Blundell, soon after the latter's return from India, and before he had taken up his residence in Glamorganshire.

       "You must always carry that crown about you," said the colonel, in presenting it to him, "it will bring you luck, and may one day bring you fortune."

       Captain Blundell, of course, accepted the gift, but, as for believing in the charm it was supposed to possess, he had no more faith in it than he would have in the prophecies of a gipsy. Still, now that the colonel was dead, he would feel glad to retain the article if only as a memento.

       It was about three weeks after the outrage that he discovered his loss. He had suffered a slight fracture of the skull, and, on the advice of his doctor, had abstained from worrying himself about the matter until his wound was partly healed. Even when he discovered his loss he was not inclined to make too much of it, but set himself more particularly to find out which particular tenant had been guilty of the outrage upon him.

       He had heard a good deal of Mickey Morgan in connection with his cousin's affair, and it occurred to him to send to Cardiff for that young gentleman. He had, besides, a great curiosity to see the detective, now that he had heard of his engagement or partial engagement to Miss Blundell, so he got his steward to write an urgent note desiring Morgan to go over to Ireland at once. Mickey had by this time, on the solicitations of his sweetheart, decided to retire into private life, or to become a journalist; and, were it not for Captain Blundell's connection with his future bride, he would, in all probability, have refused to act in the case. But as it was he undertook the journey to Ireland and set himself with all his might to find out the captain's assailant. For this purpose he went to Tipperary in the guise of a tourist and sportsman, and put up at an inn situated about three miles from the captain's residence. He did not deem it expedient to show himself in the captain's company, at any rate at the beginning, and at his own request, the fact of his working in the case was kept a secret even from the police. He had one interview with the captain, when all the particulars of the disputes with the tenants were given to him, and his attention drawn to one or two of the most discontented on the estate. This done, he spent several days with line and rod along the banks of the neighbouring river, and became known as an enthusiastic fisherman. Not that he was by any means a proficient "whipper," but a little practice was sufficient to enable him to pass muster amongst the uncritical youngsters who frequented the banks. When his nominal object in visiting the neighbourhood became generally known he relaxed his piscatorial efforts to some extent and began to mix amongst the people.

       By this time Mickey Morgan was able to wield the pen with reasonable facility, and had had some of his articles accepted by the Cardiff and even London papers, so that he was only partly lying when he declared that his profession was that of a journalist. To give this statement more veri-similitude, he showed the local publican one or two notes on "Fishing in Ireland," which he had contributed to a sporting paper. As he was always ready to "stand a thrate," he became a favourite with many, and was not long in getting into the confidence of some of the poorer tenantry. But do what he would he could find nothing that would help him to connect any one of them with the outrage on Captain Blundell.

       "Wisha, begor," said one of them to him one day, "you may take your oath it was no one from this place that attacked the captain. An' what would they attack him for? Isn't he the best landlord in the country, an' only for the bad example of the other divils would never have a word with his tinants?"

       "And who do you think has done it, then?" asked Morgan.

       "Arrah, how can I tell? Who knows what enemies the captain has over in his own country? Faith, its as likely as anythin' else that it is one of his own soldiers that's done it."

       "But the captain has long since retired from the Army."

       "Thrue enough; but grudges don't retire, and there are men in the world who keep up bad feelin' for years."

       This kind of reasoning might be true enough, but it helped Mickey Morgan very little in his investigations. He was almost despairing of the case when the loss of the silver crown suggested to him a new idea, and he went at once to consult Captain Blundell on the matter.

       "Tell me the history of that coin?" he asked.

       "I don t know that I can say much about it. Colonel Blundell, I believe, received it from his father, who was an old soldier of the Peninsular War, and it was, I believe, associated with some notable incident in that campaign."

       "Had the crown anything to distinguish it from its fellows?"

       "Nothing beyond some words in Spanish, which were engraved 011 one side, but the meaning of which I never took the trouble to find out."

       "Did Colonel Blundell know the meaning?"

       "I cannot say. Perhaps he did. He gave it to me the last time I saw him just as he was bidding me good-bye at the railway-station, and had not time to explain."

       "Do you know what the words were?"

       "Upon my word, I have not the slightest recollection, but, strangely enough, I can find out. Once, in a fit of curiosity, I copied them out, intending to get a translation, but afterwards forgot all about the matter."

       The captain then opened his desk, and, after searching amongst a number of old memorandum books, at last found what he wanted, and showed Mickey Morgan the following words, written with great care upon one of the leaves:

       "Esta moneda salvo la vida del duque de le quien la deja como herencia al capitan Blundell. Buen provecho. Zaragoza, Alfonso 31, bajos."

       Mickey Morgan knew Spanish well enough to be able to translate these words, which, in plain English, read as follows:— "This piece of money saved the life of the Duke of C., who leaves it as a legacy to Captain Blundell. May it do him good. Zaragoza, 31, Alfonso-street — ground floor."

       "May it do him good," quoted the captain; "what in the world good could it do him?"

       "It seems to me," said Mickey, "there is more in this than at first meets the eye. I have been in Spain, and I know that gentlemen in their town houses never live on the ground floor. It appears to me that the word 'bajos' refers to something not specified in the inscription."

       "What can it refer to?"

       "That's what I must find out. There is very little use in my stopping here much longer, and even as a matter of curiosity I should like to follow up this clue — not with a view of finding who attacked you, but to ascertain what possible secret may be associated with the coin. I am now convinced that the attack was not committed by one of your tenants, and it seems likely enough that the object of the attack was to rob you of the crown piece."

       But in spite of this declaration Mickey Morgan remained several more days in Tipperary. It had struck him on the way to his inn that it would be well to find out if any foreigners had been seen in the neighbourhood about the time of the murder, and the result of his inquiries was that he was told a foreigner dressed in the garb of a priest had spent a few weeks in Tipperary about the time of the outrage, disappearing immediately after. He was able to speak English fairly well, but, strange to say, during his stay had not called upon any of the local clergy. This circumstance seemed very strange to Mickey Morgan, and made him doubt the genuineness of the individual in question. In answer to his inquiry the landlord assured him that the priest, or alleged priest, was probably a Spaniard or an Italian. He was not French, at any rate, for the landlord's wife, who spoke that language well, had once addressed him in French, but he was able to respond only in very halting phrases, and turned at once into English.

       Captain Blundell did not sympathise with our hero's desire of going to Zaragoza, and expressed his unwillingness to pay the expenses of the expedition. Nothing deterred by this, Mickey determined to see the matter out to the end, and got the captain to enter into an agreement with him, in which he stipulated that should any financial benefits accrue as a result of his investigations he should receive half-share. As will be seen in our next, this was a lucky move on the part of Mickey Morgan. Neither was the captain dissatisfied with the result.

No. 35. — HIS LAST ADVENTURE.

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       Before Mickey Morgan set out for Spain on what proved to be his last detective adventure, he had a long talk with his sweetheart, Norah Blundell. That young lady had now arrived at the mature years of nineteen, whilst our hero had just passed his twenty-first birthday, and both with wonderful unanimity came to the conclusion that they were just at the right age to get married. It must be said in Mickey Morgan's favour that the suggestion of appointing an early wedding day came from the fair Norah. Not that our young detective was not anxious to enter the bonds of matrimony at the earliest possible moment, but, being a comparatively poor man, and Norah being rich, he did not think it the right thing to urge her too much in the matter. But Norah did not want urging.

       "And when are you going to marry me, Mr. Morgan?" she asked, with a mock serious air.

       "Rather, when are you going to marry me, Miss Blundell? I am too shy to ask you to name the day."

       "Shy? A detective shy! Shade of Sherlock Holmes, what is the world coming to! Well, now, my brave Mickey, you're off to Spain on a wild goose chase, but, my dear boy, should you fail to catch the goose, you may make use of your time by looking out for some nice little nest where someone you have often called a duck might be able to pass her honeymoon. As far as I am concerned, I have made up my mind to get married in a month. I have a slight preference for yourself, but if you don't marry me — why, I must ask somebody else."

       So everything was arranged, and the happy day fixed.

       It need scarcely be said that, under such circumstances, Mickey Morgan was anxious to solve the problem of the silver crown with the utmost despatch: and three days after the conversation recorded above saw him at the Fonda de Europa, in the ancient city of Saragossa. It will be remembered that the inscription on the silver coin, the secret of which he wanted to find out, read as follows:— "This piece of money saved the life of the Duke of C., who leaves it as a legacy to Captain Blundell. May it do him good. Zaragoza, 31 Alfonso-street; ground floor."

       And now here was Mickey Morgan, within five minutes' walk of the address indicated, wondering if, after all, as his sweetheart had suggested, he had really entered on a wild goose chase. It was late in the evening when he arrived, so he decided to put off his inquiries until the following morning, contenting himself by passing the time amongst the cafes, or in viewing the swift-flowing Ebro, which at that time was filled from bank to bank with the liquid snow that during the previous winter had decorated the summits of the neighbouring Pyrenees.

       When the morning came he went direct to Alfonso-street. He had previously learned that the Duke of Carrera had at one time lived in the house, but that it had long remained unoccupied by reason, he was told, of some provision in the duke's will. Arriving at No. 31, Mickey Morgan found the house as he had anticipated, untenanted, but, all the same, as fresh looking as any other house in the quaint old town. He found also a portera on guard in the porch, knitting away for dear life, and too absorbed with her work to be able to hear him until he had three or four times repeated his salutation of "buenas dias." At length he was able to attract her attention, when she rose from her seat, and, with the greatest effusiveness, inquired if there was any way in the world in which she could serve him.

       "Can you tell me, madam," he asked, "if any relative of the Duke of Carrera lives here?"

       "No, senor; no one lives here."

       "And where do the relatives of the duke live?"

       "The duke has been dead over thirty years, and left no relatives."

       "But I understand that this house belongs to the Carrera family."

       "There is no Carrera family, but, according to the will of the old duke, the house is to be kept up until a certain English gentleman comes to claim it."

       "An English gentleman — of what name may I ask?"

       "To find that out, sir, you must go to Don Sebastian Monserrat, the lawyer."

       Senor Monserrat lived close at hand, and Mickey Morgan quickly transferred himself to his office. He found the lawyer smoking comfortably in an armchair, with a bottle of Vermouth before him. He greeted Mickey Morgan with the greatest cordiality, and before allowing him to state his business poured out a tumbler full of the beverage.

       "You must really try this Vermouth," he said, "'tis of my own manufacture and better than anything Turin can produce."

       Mickey, of course, responded to the heartiness of the lawyer, praised the liquor, declared Spain to be the finest country in the world, and Aragon the finest province in Spain. Then he suddenly plunged into business.

       "I have come to Spain, sir, as representing the late Colonel Blundell in connection with the property of the Duke of Carrera."

       This was said as a feeler, and suggested by what the portera had told him regarding the house in Alfonso-Street.

       "Dear me," said the lawyer, "somebody else come to represent Colonel Blundell! I have almost finished the affair, and in a few days the property will be handed over to the colonel's son.

       "The colonel had no son, sir, and I am the only one with the right to represent his heirs."

       The lawyer looked perplexed, and emitted a few mild Spanish oaths. Everyone swears in Spain as a matter of duty, just as the English troops are supposed to have sworn in Flanders.

       Mickey Morgan had taken the precaution of bringing with him an authorisation from Captain Blundell, endorsed by the Spanish Consul, saying that he was fully empowered to work on the captain's behalf in Spain. When the lawyer saw the paper he frowned, swore again, and then exclaimed:

       "Por dios; I thought so."

       What Senor Monserrat had thought was that a certain man who had represented himself as the son of Colonel Blundell was not an Englishman at all.

       "Yet he had the duro," he continued, meditatingly.

       By duro .Morgan at once saw that the crown piece was intended. [It was] stolen from the real owner some months ago."

       "Can you prove that?"

       "Certainly; and, what's more, I can now give you the words which are inscribed on the face of it."

       Mickey repeated the words, and the lawyer acknowledged their accuracy. But he still refused to explain what particular significance the words sought possessed. He would have to see Mr. Blundell himself. Our hero at once telegraphed for that gentleman, and three days later saw him in Spain. An extract from the will of the Duke of Carrera will explain the remainder of the story.

       "When dying with hunger amongst the Pyrenees after having escaped from the French Captain Blundell, who was in almost as sorry a plight as myself, and, moreover, severely wounded, gave me his last coin to buy a morsel of bread. That coin saved my life. I afterwards recovered it, and now bequeath it to the captain or his heirs in the direct line, together with the house in Alfonso-street, and all it contains. That house is to be guarded day and night until such time as the heir of the Blundells comes to claim it. For this purpose I leave a sum of money invested in Government securities sufficient to pay for the guardianship in perpetuity."

       The will gave many more particulars which need not be set down here. It will be sufficient to say that Captain Blundell's claim was finally acknowledged, and that in the house in Alfonso-street was found gold and jewels which, when realised, amounted to a considerable fortune. Under the agreement which the captain had given to Mickey Morgan, that young gentleman became the owner of half the duke's legacy, and became all at once a rich man.

       Norah Blundell, however, took little heed of this fortune. She would, indeed, have preferred our hero as a poor man, but even riches have sometimes to be borne with, and when, on that happy day which saw the two of them on board the boat at Dover, Mickey asked his wife how she liked a newsboy as a husband, the blushing Mrs. Morgan replied:—

       "As newsboy or detective or squire you are quite the cleverest and dearest boy in the world, and I am the happiest of girls."

       Thus ended Mickey Morgan's last adventure.

The End.