THE family name of Rupel was an old and honored one. It dated back to the time when William the Conqueror came over to England, and had always been the pride of those bearing the name to carry it unblemished to the grave. The first Rupel in England was a man of no mean ability, although he gained his daily substance by providing for the comfort of the "soles" of those who might patronize him. He was a very haughty man, but he was never ashamed of his low birth, and rather prided himself on it, pointing with exultation to the manner in which he had carved his way to fortune. This old James Rupel was a hard task-master, and held the rod over the back of the poor apprentice and journeyman the same as if he had been the overseer of a plantation where slaves were employed. He was not loved, but feared by. all whom he employed. He was very close in money matters; in fact, to a certain extent he was miserly. This close attention to the small-pence of his sales was the means of making him the great millionaire before he had reached the age of fifty. It was principally owing to his enormous wealth that he was knighted and given the title to the Croyden estates, situated in one of the finest portions of central England. This was one of the largest estates in England, and the owner was lucky in being the possessor of a fine old abbey, which had been built and occupied by the monks, but was confiscated to the State during the numerous changes of government through which the country had passed. When the shoemaker became the owner of the abbey, he had it remodeled, and furnished with the most elaborate kind of furniture. As generation after generation passed many of the heirs to the great Croyden Abbey became noted as politicians, statesmen and in other professions, which, if we were to mention them all, would be not only tiresome to the reader, but would have no bearing upon the story. It is with none of these that our story is to deal. We will skip over all further attempts at writing the genealogy of the good and pious ancestors of the Rupels and come down to modern times. If the last heir of this estate had been as honest as his ancestors, this story would never have been writ- ten, and the people of England would never have been startled by the great sensation which was the principal topic of newspaper discussion.

      It was a bleak night in November. The snow was falling in blinding clouds and covering every object with "a cloth of purity." The wind howled and groaned as it played hide-and-seek in and out of the many turns and corners of the old abbey at Croyden, and in its flight it caught up shutters and signs in the village and carried them along in its wild career, so that on the morrow many a poor shop-keeper found himself without any shutters and signless. To the superstitious this action of the elements was ascribed as the doings of the witches. It was such a night that few would desire to be without-doors, and those that were well housed and well fed were thankful that no mission called them out, and that they could enjoy the comforts of the warmth of the blazing grate-fire. Even the wretched man who had no fire and no comforts, but who had a shelter, no matter how poor it might be, was thankful on this night that his condition was no worse.

      On this evening Sir Robert Rupel, the owner of the great Croyden Abbey, sat in a large arm-chair before a blazing grate-fire in his study. He was a man of about sixty years of age, of medium build, and his hair was as white as the snow that was covering every object without. His face wore a haggard and serious look as he scanned the pages of a book that was lying open before him Something troubled him, one could see by the different changes of his countenance and the manner in which he acted when he suddenly started from his chair, flung the book aside and commenced to pace hurriedly up and down the apartment. In the excitement of the moment he had not noticed where the book had fallen, and as he paced up and down he kept stepping constant; upon the volume, tearing its leaves and scattering them about the room. So intent was he in thinking that he did not notice what his feet had done until the whole volume was torn to pieces, When he stopped in his walk and discovered what he had done, he stooped down and picked up the cover of the book, with the remaining leaves attached to its back, and muttered:

      "So the very thing I was contemplating has been done unconsciously. I will burn the remnants of this cursed diary."

      As he said this he commenced to pick up the scattered leaves and to throw them into the fire When he had finished, and he had made sure that none had escaped his eyes, and that nothing now remained except the ashes, he said with a sigh:

      "Thus perishes one evidence of my crime."

      He sat down in his chair again and rested his head on his hand. As he did this the tempest, which had abated for some time, commenced to rage furiously, and the wind blew the falling hail in clouds against the window-panes. This storm annoyed the owner of the abbey with its noise, and he said:

      "I wish the storm would cease. Never before have I been so harassed with the memories of the past, and this storm seems to bring them up more vividly before me. It was just such a night thirty years ago that that cursed thing happened. I wonder what time it is, and ——"

      Rap, rap, rap!

      Further soliloquizing was cut short by three loud raps on the heavy oak door of the study.

      Sir Robert Rupel turned in his chair, faced the door, and cried out in a harsh voice:

      "Come in!"

      As soon as it was opened he turned on his valet with a look of anger, and as the man stood waiting for some minutes, Sir Robert Rupel exclaimed:

      "Why can't you speak? What do you want? 2 Don't stand there waiting and gaping like an idiot. Shut that door, it's fearfully cold."

      "A woman wants to see Sir Robert Rupel."

      "What kind of a woman is she?"

      "An old woman."

      "Where did she say she came from?"

      "She didn't state."

      "Did she tell you her name?"

      "No."

      "You fool, why didn't you find out something about her?"

      "Because she is dumb."

      "How did you find out that?"

      "Because she wrote what she wanted on a piece of paper, and refused to write anything more. She also wrote that she must see you to-night, and if you refused her an interview, to-morrow you would be sorry for it."

      "Did the woman threaten me?" excitedly queried Sir Robert; his face wore a scowl, and, from his manner, it was evident that it would not be well for the person who trifled with him.

      "She wrote just what I told you," answered the valet.

      "Go back to the woman and tell her that I will not see her to-night, and that if she does not leave the house immediately I will have her locked up and severely punished in the morning."

      The man left the room to carry his master's message, and soon returned with a note which he handed to Sir Robert.

      As the nobleman opened the little piece of dirty white paper and gazed at the writing, he turned pale and started back with a look of terror on his face.

      "Show the woman up," he hoarsely exclaimed, and after the man had left the room he took the note and threw it into the fire on top of the ashes of the diary. It caught on fire finally, and burned slowly on account of its being damp. It as still burning when the valet returned to the study and ushered the woman in. He then closed the door and left the dumb guest alone with his master.

      Sir Robert Rupel was standing by the fireplace facing Woe door when the strange woman entered. For some time they stood silently looking at one another. The woman had thrown off the shawl which had covered her head, and displayed a face that had once been beautiful, but was now wrinkled by care and suffering. Her hair was as white as the nobleman's who stood before her; her form was erect, and even now in her aged and broken-down condition there was something to admire about her. Her clothing was of the poorest kind, but for all that it was neat and clean.

      "What's your business?" Sir Robert finally asked, in a voice that was full of emotion. "Has my steward turned you out-of-doors for non-payment of rent, and have you come here to beg me to let you stay?"

      When the nobleman finished speaking the woman drew herself up to her full height, her eyes sparkled with indignation, and she exclaimed in a voice full of scorn:

      "Sir Robert Rupel, you know well enough what I want."

      "Oh, you can speak, can you? I thought that you were dumb?"

      "For a purpose," quietly rejoined the woman.

      "Pray, what may this purpose be? I'm sure I never met you before, my good woman."

      "Robert Rupel," rejoined the woman, this time leaving the Sir off, "you pretend not to know me?"

      "I'm sure I never met you before. Tell me what you have come here for to-night, and in such a storm."

      "You say you never met me before, and that I am a stranger to you? Robert Rupel, you know you lie when you say this, and I would advise you to beware how you trifle with me. You say you don't know me? You stand there with your face as pale as a sheet, and tremble in your shoes; you can't look me straight in the eyes. Why is this? If I am a stranger to you, why should you act in such a frightened manner? You have nothing to fear from a strange woman, but you have from me. By denying that you have ever met me you hope to bluff me, but I would advise you to beware. If you don't listen I will publish your crimes broadcast throughout the country, and the world will then know what kind of a man the respected Sir Robert Rupel is."

      "The world will believe your charges to be falsehoods, and consider them a blackmailing scheme."

      "Not when I can produce proof to sustain those charges."

      "I defy you!" thundered the nobleman.

      "Then this very night I shall tell William what he is. He shall know what a scoundrel he has for a father. Robert Rupel, I go now to find your son."

      The woman turned to leave the room; her hand was on the knob of the door, but before she could open it Sir Robert started from where he was standing, grasped her by the wrist, pulled her back into the center of the room, and exclaimed:

      "Madge Babbington, are you crazy?"

      "So you recognize me at last, do you?" cried the woman, as she pulled her hand from his grasp. Sir Robert hung his head, and did not answer the question for some time.

      "Madge, don't do anything rash. What good would it do for you to tell William of your and my shame? He don't know you, and if you should tell him anything he would consider you a crazy woman."

      "He thinks that he is your heir. Your wife thinks that he is the son of the woman you married before her. What if she should discover that this is not so? William will know of it, and his disgrace will be great."

      "He will never know of it until my death."

      "Then what will you do?"

      "I will then leave a written confession, and will him a large sum of money, but the estates and the title must go to Clarence, the lawful heir to the Croyden property."

      "Have you no idea of justice? William, my son, is your only lawful heir; if you had married me and not committed the crimes you did, this disgrace would never have happened. you deceived me; when our child was born you took him from me, and then when I was able to travel you had me carried to a foreign land, where I was confined in a convent for many long years. I only succeeded in escaping a few months ago. When I arrived in London, I learned that you had taken good care of the child — you had given him a good education; he had been successful after he had left college, and now to-day he is a leading member in the House of Commons, respected by the people, and bidding fair to occupy, in a short time, a great government position. Have you no sympathy in your cold heart, Robert Rupel? Your kindness to William will in the end prove a curse."

      "Madge, Madge, don't upbraid me so. I did it all for the best," said the guilty man. "I loved you better than any woman I ever knew, and if you had had money I would have married you. I was fearfully in debt. My creditors threatened me. What was I to do? I could not marry you, so I married a woman who brought me money and saved me from disgrace."

      "When you sent me abroad you might have sen the child also."

      "No, I did not want to do that. I hope that I might be able to fix my papers in such a way that no one would ever know but what he was my lawful heir. Matters went on from year to year. I delayed doing anything, and the result is that now I have come to the conclusion that in my last days I will not attempt to blacken my soul with another crime."

      "Foul scoundrel, you will then have the world know in the end that your son is my child, and that the name of Rupel has been steeped in infamy."

      "It must be so," groaned Sir Robert, who had — taken a seat and bowed his head upon his arms.

      "Hearken to me, Robert Rupel," cried Madge Babbington, who was now so excited that she looked like a crazy woman, with her hair streaming down her back, "hearken to me: If you don't see that William Rupel has his rights, and is not disgraced, I will. He is my child, and I love him. He thinks that his mother is dead, but he shall know that she is alive, and that she lives to protect him, and to prevent you from disgracing him before the whole world. He is the lawful heir to the Croyden estates, and if it is within my power to retain those estates for him, he shall have them."

      "Madge, this is impossible," cried Sir Robert. "I have already made my will in favor of my son Clarence."

      "If you have, you must destroy it this very night. Where is the will?"

      "Here it is on the table."

      Sir Robert lifted the document from the table and held it in his hand.

The will caught on fire and was burning up.

      "Burn it," ordered Madge Babbington. Sir Robert did as he was commanded. It seemed now as if he could not resist doing anything the woman ordered him to do, so great was her influence over him. The will caught on fire and was burning up. The room was filled with smoke. Madge Babbington was the first to notice it, and she looked around to see if anything was burning. She thought that it might be only the smoke from the burning paper which had been blown into the room by the wind from the chimney. The storm was still raging furiously without, and there were no signs of its abating. Madge Babbington was not satisfied with this examination, so she went to the study-door, opened it, and was about to look into the hall when she started back with a fearful scream as dense clouds of smoke rolled into the room and almost suffocated her. She saw in an instant that the house was on fire, and that unless she acted quickly she would be burned up. She made her way back to the chair where she had left Sir Robert sitting, but when she reached it she discovered that he had gone. While she stood wondering what had become of him, she heard the report of a pistol, and an instant afterwards there was a groan, and Sir Robert Rupel fell by her side dead. She bent over the man who had deceived her and tried to get him to speak, but he answered not a word.

      "He is dead," she murmured, and then started to her feet as she discovered that the fire had approached nearer, and that it was about to envelop the room in its flames.

      "I must be quick, or I, too, will die. The papers — where are they? Ah! here they are!" she joyfully exclaimed, as she found the papers on the table and quickly put them in her pocket. She then started in the direction of the door opposite to the one that led into the hall, and which connected the study with the art gallery. She succeeded in reaching the door at last. The flames: from the hall drew nearer and nearer. It would not be many minutes before they would reach her. She flung open the door and then jumped back in affright as flames darted into her face. She was hemmed in on all sides by the fire, and it was evident that it would not be long before she would be burned to death.

      "Heavens!" she moaned as she fell on her knees and lifted up her hands, "spare me, I pray Thee, so that I may see my son gain his rights!"

      It seemed as if her prayer was answered, for she bounded to her feet and rushed to the side of the room that the flames had not yet reached.

      "I ought to know this house well," she cried. "If my memory serves me right, there used to be a secret passage leading from this room to the vaults. Ah, I have it; here's the spring."

      Madge Babbington was on her knees in the corner of the room, and with her hands was feeling for something. At last her right hand touched a ring in the side of the wall, and she gave it a sudden jerk. A door flew open, and the secret passage was disclosed to her view. The flames were now upon her, and her dress was already on fire. Not waiting a moment, she sprang into the passage and pulled the door to after her, thus baffling the fire demon for a time. She put out the fire that was burning a portion of her dress, and then commenced a hasty descent to the vaults beneath the Abbey. Down, down she went into the bowels of the earth, until she finally came to the opening of a long and narrow passageway.

      "Let me think a moment," she muttered, as she stopped at the foot of the stairway. "I ought to remember where this leads to. In the old days when we were boy and girl, Robert and I used to play hide-and-seek in and out of these vaults. Now I remember where this passage leads. It goes under the chapel, and finally ends in the vault that is situated beneath the altar. I will hurry in."

      Madge Babbington went on until she came to the vault. The old stone coffins were still there, as they had been in her girlhood days. It did not take her long to lift off the top of the altar, and she was soon standing in the center of the chapel. The chapel was warm, owing to the fact that it was Saturday, and a large fire had been built in a stove to make it comfortable for Sunday. The woman tried to open the door, but she found that she could not, as her strength was slowly giving way. She sat down in a pew, to rest before she made another attempt to get out. She could hear the cries of the people as they worked to put the fire out. As she listened and tried to discover what they were saying, a horrible thought took possession of her, and she cried:

      "They told me that William was in bed. Suppose he should not wake up? The fire will burn him to death?"

      This was the last word she uttered for many hours, for she sank unconscious upon the floor, from weakness caused by the excitement through which she had passed.

      We will return to the abbey and see what is taking place. Sir Robert's valet returned to the servants' hall, after he had left Madge Babbington alone with his master, and commenced to have a good time with his companions. They, like Madge Babbington, were suddenly startled by the smoke, and when they started to find out where it came from, they discovered that the flames were issuing from the art gallery. They speedily gave the alarm, and all the inmates of the house, with the exception of Sir Robert and Madge Babbington, were able to escape. Every one worked with a will, and when it was discovered that Sir Robert was missing, and the valet told where he was, many efforts were made to get into the study, but all of these proved of no avail. The fire was finally extinguished after about an hour's work, and then it was discovered how it had originated.

      A girl had been ordered to build a fire in the art gallery, and, after she had done so, she had left the door of the stove open. A spark flew out and set a rug on fire, and, no one being near at the time, the conflagration soon spread and destroyed all of the valuable pictures. It soon reached the hall, and then burst into the study when Madge Babbington opened the door.

      When the fire was all out William and Clarence Rupel went into the study to look for their father's remains. They. at last found the charred body and had it removed. They found the pistol, but did not suspect that Sir Robert had committed suicide. But what had become of the woman? was the question that everybody asked, after they had made a thorough search among the ruins, but could find no trace of her body. The valet said that he had left her with Sir Robert a few minutes before the fire, and it was impossible for her to leave the house unless seen by the servants.

      As morning dawned the storm cleared away, and the sun shone brightly upon the havoc that had been done the night before. In the village there was very little sorrow expressed at Sir Robert's death; if the truth were known, there we great rejoicing among the tenantry. They were now rid of a hard task-master and a man who had no sympathy for any one. There was not person in the whole country but respected William Rupel and would do anything for him. He was a kind friend of the laboring man, and during his career in the House of Commons he had worked hard for the industrial classes. His nature was entirely different from his father's, and where Sir Robert acted in a stern and unsympathetic manner toward a tenant, he would help the poor man out of his own pocket, and thus make amends, in a measure. Up to this time his character had remained unblemished. He was never known to do anything underhand or mean, and for this honesty in political matters he had gained a great many friends and a host of enemies, who would have done anything to have overthrown his power. He was becoming more and more popular every day among the people, and if his popularity continued there was no telling but what he might become a great power in directing the affairs of the nation.

(To be continued)

FOR hours Madge Babbington lay unconscious under the seat in the chapel, showing no signs of life. The doors were opened for service by a hired man fully an hour before the congregation would commence to assemble. The first person to enter the sanctuary after the man had opened the door was William Rupel. He walked slowly up the aisle, knelt before the altar, and bowed his head on the chancel-rail. He prayed long and fervently, and when he raised his face a smile of contentment shone upon it.

      As William stood up before the altar he clasped his hands in front of him and raised his eyes to one of the stained-glass windows on which was painted the parable of the Good Samaritan.

      "Such is the way all men should live," he murmured, "and yet how many thousands and thousands daily play the part of the priest who passed by on the other side! If this world were only free of the Shylocks of life, what a paradise it would be! But men will be harsh and cruel, and the more money they have the more cruel and grinding they seem to be. With them poverty is a crime. Such was the case with my father. He did not know what pity was. Oh, that I might have the power and wealth of Crœsus, that I might help to relieve some of this suffering which surrounds us."

      These were earnest and heartfelt words, and when Rupel had finished he walked slowly down the aisle toward the door. He reached the last row of pews, when he stopped, turned around, and gazed again upon the window which seemed to rivet his attention that morning, and to bring such yearning thoughts into his mind.

      "What a heavenly look that face has," he thought, "and what a noble act that traveler is performing!"

      At this moment a groan came from the pew by which William Rupel was standing, and he started and looked around the chapel to see from whence the sound proceeded; another groan followed, and this time his eyes rested on the form of a woman lying under the pew. In a moment he stepped forward and lifted Madge Babbington out of her cramped position, placed her on a pew for a minute until he could place some cushions on the floor, when he laid her gently upon them, and then commenced to try and bring her back to consciousness. It was some distance from the chapel to the hall, and William Rupel was afraid to leave the sufferer, lest in his absence she should die. He went into the robing-room and there found some wine, which he poured into a cup, and then gave it to her to drink. This seemed to revive the sufferer, for in a few minutes she opened her eyes and looked into the face of the man who was bending over her and said:

      "Where am I?"

      "In the chapel of Croyden Abbey," answered William Rupel, as he bathed her head.

      She closed her eyes and went off into another fainting fit. Little did William Rupel think that the woman he was trying to restore to consciousness was his own mother. He thought at that moment that she was some poor creature who had wandered into the chapel and had been overcome by hunger and fatigue. As soon as Madge fainted again William Rupel gave her some more of the wine. She breathed heavily. It seemed as if she could hardly get her breath. William Rupel noticed this, and hastily undid the collar of her dress. As he unbuttoned her waist and bared the neck, a locket attracted his attention. It was made of massive gold, and hung around the woman's neck attached to a heavy chain. This had been closely concealed in Madge Babbington's bosom, and no one who had ever known her knew that she possessed such a costly piece of jewelry. William Rupel lifted the locket in his hand and then turned it over on the opposite side. As he did this his eyes rested on something which made him start in surprise and exclaim:

      "What can this be? Here is the Croyden arms engraven on this locket, together with the motto of our house."

      Still greater was his surprise when, on opening it, he saw before him his father's picture, taken when he was a young main, and in the other side of the case the portrait of the woman before him. He recognized the features immediately.

      "This must be the strange woman who visited my father last night, and yet I don't see how that can be, for the valet said that that woman could not speak, while this person can." He still kept on bathing Madge Babbington's head, and administering the wine in small quantities, when at last his efforts were rewarded by her opening her eyes. For a long time Madge Babbington gazed vacantly around the chapel and did not speak. She then covered her face with her hands and muttered:

      "I remember it all now."

      "Remember what, my good woman?" asked William Rupel, his whole manner showing kindness and sympathy towards the sufferer.

      "The fire — my escape — Sir Robert Rupel's death!"

      "What do you know about it?" gasped William Rupel in astonishment.

      "I was there — we were shut in the apartment and could not escape. Sir Robert was in such a condition that he blew his brains out. The fire Surrounded us on all sides. I rushed towards the door leading into the art gallery, hoping to escape through that, when I was appalled by the discovery that that room was ablaze also. Slowly the fire crept towards me. I was almost crazy with the thought that I would be burned alive, when suddenly I remembered that there used to be a secret passage leading from the study to the vaults. I succeeded in finding the spring just as the flames were about to envelop me. I sprang into the passage, closed the door after me, and at last knew that I was safe. I wandered along the passage till I came to the vault under the altar, when I succeeded in getting in here. After this I remembered nothing."

      "What is your name, my good woman?" asked William Rupel, after she had finished.

      "Madge Babbington."

      "Did you know my father?"

      "Your father!" exclaimed Madge Babbington, the minute after William Rupel asked the question, and then with all the strength that she could collect, she sat up and looked searchingly into her questioner's eyes. "Know your father!" She now clutched Willam Rupel's arm, excitedly:

      "Tell me, quick, are you Clarence or William Rupel?"

      "William Rupel! Why do you ask?"

She sat up and clutched his arm, saying, "Are you Clarence or William Rupel?"

      "William, my — no, no, no, I must not call you that now, and still the revelation must come sooner or later," Madge Babbington cried, as she wrung her hands. She was in the act of throwing her arms around William Rupel's neck, when she commanded her feelings with an effort and again became calm and collected.

      This action on Madge Babbington's part surprised William so that he murmured in a low one:

      "Can this woman be crazy?"

      It was not so low but what Madge Babbington was able to hear it, and immediately she answered in an aggrieved tone:

      "William Rupel, I am not crazy, although my actions a few minutes ago might seem to you that I am."

      Madge had hardly uttered these words when she fainted again. The excitement of the discovery had been too great for her. The people now commenced to come into the chapel, and William Rupel was now able to get some assistance. He had Madge Babbington taken to the hall and placed in a room on the second floor, when he sent for a physician, and gave orders that she was to receive the best of care and anything else that she desired. As he walked back to the chapel to attend the service it seemed as if he was troubled greatly about something, and that something was the locket and the woman's strange actions.

      "I wonder who she can be?" he thought. "There is some mystery surrounding her life, and there are no doubts but what she was connected with my father in some way. She seems to be acquainted with everything about the abbey. She acted strange when I told her my name. Perhaps she is some poor woman whom my father wronged. I must try and get her to tell me the story of her life, and if I find out that she has suffered through any action of my father, I will try and repair the injury by making her comfortable for life."

      He entered the chapel and walked slowly to the family pew. This morning as he entered it was deserted, and he was the only occupant. His stepmother and Clarence was absent. When the service was over he waited for the curate, and then walked with him back to the abbey.

      The curate was a young man, and from the manner in which William talked with him it was easily seen that they were close friends.

      "Well, Will," said the curate, as they walked along, "now that your father is dead, and the estates and title are yours, I hope that you will not become hard-hearted and change your course of life in any way."

      "If I should think for an instant, Frank, that I would ever become like my father, so cold and heartless, I would renounce my wealth, and either kill myself or go into a monastery," answered William, with considerable animation.

      "I am glad to see that you are so determined," answered the curate, "and I pray that you may have the health and strength to carry out the noble work that you have begun. As long as you do this, Will, you need have nothing to fear."

      "Thank you, Frank," said Rupel, and he and the curate entered the abbey together.

      The Reverend Frank Hoffman was the curate of Croyden. He was a man of the same age as William Rupel, and one having a great deal of force of character. He had made the acquaintance of William at college, and a close friendship sprang up between the two, and when they each entered upon their different courses of life this friendship remained unbroken. Mr. Hoffman entered the church, and soon after he was ordained the curate of Croyden died, and William persuaded his father to give his friend the position. This was done, and Mr. Hoffman became an inmate of Croyden Abbey, and the tie between him and the young politician became closer and closer, until William never undertook anything of importance, unless he asked the curate's advice. It may be said that it was owing to Mr. Hoffman's influence over William that his character had been so beautifully molded.

      "Frank, will you have a few minutes to spare this afternoon?" asked William, when he was about to leave the curate at his room-door before he went in to dress for dinner. "I want to talk to you about something that bothers me."

      "I can give you all the time you want after dinner," answered the curate, and then the two friends separated, Mr. Hoffman going into his room and William going to the room where Madge Babbington was, to find out how she was.

      In the hall he met: the doctor, who said, when he saw him:

      "I was just going to try and find you. The woman requested me to tell you that she wanted to see you."

      "Is she any better, doctor?" asked William, as he stood in front of the door of the room where Madge Babbington was.

      "She has received a severe shock to her nervous system. Her heart is affected, and at present I cannot say whether she will live or die. She is very low," answered the doctor.

      "I'm sorry to hear that. Is her mind in any way affected?"

      "No, it is perfectly clear. The woman has seen a great deal of trouble, and this has broken down her constitution. She is not a common person by any means, and from her conversation I should judge that she had seen better days. When you talk with her be careful that you don't say anything to excite her."

      "I'll be careful," answered William, as he bade the doctor good-by, and then went into the room. Madge Babbington had her eyes closed as he entered; but she opened them as soon as he came up to the side of the bed, and said:

      "Sir William, will you kindly tell the maid to leave the room for a little while, as I want to talk to you privately."

      William did as she requested, wondering what she could want to see him for privately. Her voice was calm and collected, and she did not show any signs of being agitated or excited. When the servant had left the room and Madge Babbington was left alone with William, she said:

      "I heard the doctor say a little while ago that he could not say whether I would live or die, and so I sent for you to tell you something that I wish it was not left to me to disclose. It is for your benefit, Sir William, and I want you to promise me that after I have told you everything you will not upbraid me for what I have done. Will you promise me that?"

      "I will."

      A silence followed this, and both mother and son looked searchingly at each other — the one yearning to throw herself in the arms of her child, and the other unconscious of the relationship, and wondering what it was that was about to be revealed to him.

      "Sir William, sit down by my side and take my hand," said Madge Babbington. "I have a strange and sad story to relate, and I want to hold your hand to give me courage to do it."

      "Anything I can do for you I will do it," answered William.

      "If your father had listened to me last night there would be no need for this pain that I am about to cause you."

      "What can the woman mean?" thought William, as Madge Babbington stopped for a few minutes to get her breath.

      "You no doubt would have learned of this later on in life, and it would have ruined you, but, thank heaven, I have lived longer than your father, and am able to save you from this disgrace ——"

      "Disgrace!" ejaculated William, at a loss to understand what Madge could mean.

      "Yes, William" — this time she did not use the Sir — "if your father had lived and I had not been able to do anything with him, you would have been disgraced at his death. The fire last night was a Godsend; it destroyed all proofs of your father’s crimes and left you without a stain on your character. But you must act speedily and obey me, or the partial victory that I have gained will be useless to you."

      By this time Rupel was greatly excited, and he exclaimed:

      "Come, woman, I am getting tired of this enigmatical way of speaking; tell me plainly what all these curious riddles mean ——"

      Madge placed her hand on her breast; there were tears in her eyes, and a great lump seemed to rise in her throat so that she could hardly speak. She tried to control her voice, but so great was her emotion that it quivered as she said:

      "William, it means that you are Sir Robert Rupel's illegitimate child; that you have I, Madge Babbington, a sinful and degraded wretch of a woman, am your mother."

      "I'll not believe it," cried William. He darted from his mother's bed as if she had been a viper, and had stung him.

      "It is so, all the same," moaned the miserable woman, "and you would have heard of it from other lips besides mine. The world would have pointed to you with scorn, and all the greatness or popularity which you have gained would not save you from the brand of illegitimacy."

      "Oh, this is fearful!" cried Rupel, as he put his hands to his head. "Am I dreaming? Did I hear aright? Can this revelation be true, or is this only the hallucination of a madwoman? What does my greatness amount to? Oh, that I might die! Why do I go on so? It can't be so; and yet, suppose it is true, what will the world say? Oh, the thought is killing! If I am the illegitimate prodigy of Sir Rupel I will blow my brains out!"

      "My son, don't talk that way," sobbed Madge. "Look at your poor old mother, and think of what she must suffer. I am here to devise some means to save you from the disgrace which you fear so much. The world knows nothing of this, and it never will if you will act promptly."

      "What would you have me do?" asked William as he became more calm, and stood with his arms folded before his mother's bed.

      "Listen to me and mark what I say well," she said, and then went on to relate to him all that took place in the study the evening before, what his father's plans had been, how the will had been burned, and finally ended by saying: "Now all that you have to do is produce my certificate of marriage, place that marriage on the parish register, get certificates of your birth and my death, and find a new will."

      "Then, woman, you would have me commit a crime to cover up the offenses of my parents? You would have me commit a forgery to save my name from obloquy. I'll not do it; I'll bear the shame, and allow Clarence and his mother to claim the estates, which is by law theirs."

      "Theirs by law — true, true," exclaimed his mother, "but not theirs by right. It is justly yours, You are Sir Robert's eldest son, and it was your father's base crimes that would have deprived you of your rights. Listen to reason, William. The world knows nothing of this yet — you are safe. Suppose you make it known, what will be the result? Your popularity will fade away; your constituents will sneer at you; the people whom you yearn so much to help will lose a great benefactor; listen to reason, I beseech of you." She frantically arose from her bed, and knelt on the floor at her son's feet, frantically clutching his knees with her hands; then when she found that he was silent, she continued more passionately:

      William, do listen to your mother — the woman who loves you and would give up her life to save you. Do say that you will act as I want you to — Clarence and Lady Anne Rupel hate you and will be only too glad to grasp this prize from your hands. With this wealth and this title think of what good you can do. You will succeed, you will become great, you will work for the benefit of the poor and down-trodden. What if you allow this to go into Clarence's hands? He is a spendthrift and a gambler, and if he gets the estate he will only squander it. Think of this, William. Don't look with such scorn upon your poor old mother; she loves you, even though she was never able to do a mother's part by you. Say you will forgive this miserable wretch at your feet, and that you will save yourself from disgrace. My son, dear William, do say yes."

      This earnest appeal seemed to be working on Rupel's feelings. Tears shone in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He had thought of all that his mother was saying, and when she had finished he bent down, lifted her from her knees, clasped her in his arms, and exclaimed:

      "Mother, I will do it."

      That one sentence seemed to put new life into Madge Babbington, and when he uttered the word mother, it sounded like heavenly music in her ears. Her weakness had all passed away now, and she stood firmly on her feet. She took her son's hands in her own and pressed them to her lips. William Rupel would not submit to this show of slavery. His sympathetic heart was full of compassion; he drew his hands away quickly, lifted his mother's face, and kissed her on the forehead.

      "Mother, forgive me for the harshness that I have used towards you. I will do as you say."

      "William, it is I that should ask forgiveness."

      "Let us hear no more of this now. We must be cautious how we act, and no one must know of the relationship between us. I must leave you now. I will come back and see you after dinner, when we will talk over this matter."

      Madge returned to her bed, and after Rupel left the room her condition seemed to be improved greatly. William went to his own room and sat down by his desk, bowing his head upon his arms. For a long time he remained in this position, and was only aroused by the entrance of his valet, who announced that dinner was ready. He made his toilet in a hurry, and joined the rest of the family, who were waiting for him. Lady Ann was sitting at the table when he came in, and her son Clarence was sitting on the opposite side from her. William entered the dining-room and took his place at the table without saying a word, to any one. This was something unusual, for he was always noted for his jovial remarks, but now as his friend, the Rev. Frank Hoffman, looked at him he saw that he looked haggard, and that there was something on his mind. All through the meal he was silent, and tasted but little of the food that was placed before him, and as soon as it was over he arose in haste from his seat and was hurrying away, when Mr. Hoffman arrested him by placing his hand on his shoulder, and saying in an affective manner:

      "Will, what is the matter? Shall we go to my room and talk over that business you said you desired to consult me about?"

      "There is nothing the matter now, Frank," answered William with some hesitancy. "I will not need to take up your time, for I have found out all I desire to know. I have some letters to write and will now go to my room."

      "Come, Will, I know that something worries you; tell me, and if I can help you in any way I will gladly do so," said the curate.

      "Nothing worries me, Frank. I am pressed with business cares, that is all."

      "Is it financial matters?"

      "No, no. I am not embarrassed in any way."

      "Has Clarence got into another scrape?"

      "Not that I know of. I'm all right; don't ask me anything more. The only thing the matter with me is that I cannot get rid of the thought of my father's horrible death."

      This excuse seemed to satisfy Mr. Hoffman, for he left William, and went out intending to pay a visit to the village, which he would have put off if he could have done anything to have helped his friend. What would he have said if he had known what that friend was about to do? For some time William Rupel stood looking after his friend until he was out of sight; he then turned and entered the room where his mother was. He murmured:

      "Ah, Frank, if you only knew what was bothering me, and the crime that I am about to commit, you would turn away in disgust — all your love and friendship would be turned to loathing. But then I am doing something that will save you and all my friends from disgrace; there is some consolation in that. I am perfectly safe and it will never be found out."

      So have thought hundreds of others before, besides William Rupel. On that Sunday if he had known what would be the results of his yielding to his mother's wishes, he would have tried to have saved himself from the stigma of his parent's crime in some other and more honorable way.

(To be continued)

AS William Rupel stood by the side of the bed looking at his mother, who was now wrapped in a peaceful slumber, he could not help but admire the beautiful face that was before him. Even in her old age some of her former beauty remained.

      "Mother, thou knowest little of what this revelation is going to cost me. I have almost lost all respect for myself, and I curse the day that I was born. It is always so if one struggles to become famous — some great object always stands in the way, and often the only way to remove such an impediment i is by committing a crime. Perhaps such a crime as I am about to commit —   I will not disturb her; I will go to the village church and look over the register and see what I can do."

      So saying, he left the room, and, after he had put on his hat and overcoat, he went back to the village church and there asked to see the register. Page after page he turned over until he came to the year that he was born in. This register had not been opened for years. The old minister was dead, and, if he could succeed in imitating the handwriting, there would be no evidence of his crime. He turned to the day of the month on which he was born, and, as he looked down the page, an exclamation of surprise came from his lips as he read:

      "Born this day, at Croyden Abbey, William, son of Sir Robert Rupel and Margaret, his wife."

As he looked down upon the page an exclamation came from his lips.

      "Do my eyes deceive me?" cried William Rupel as he read the entry again and examined the page closely. The entry was at the bottom of the page, and it seemed as if the writer had been compelled to reduce his penmanship on the last line to get it in. The writing was the same as the rest on the page, yet the ink was of a little darker color some places. The entry had been made years before, it was evident.

      "Thank heavens, one task is spared me," muttered Rupel, as he gazed on the page. Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he said with a tremor in his voice:

      "Can it be that my father made this entry? Now that I look at it critically the writing seems be the same as the rest, still there is one characteristic feature of my father's handwriting which the casual observer would not notice in this entry, and that is the R——. He has done this, and I thank him for it. Oh, I almost forgot the entry of a marriage," he exclaimed, as he was about to close the volume and to put it back on the shelf. This was more difficult to find. Page after page he scanned until he came to the first page of the volume which commenced that year. No entry was there. Not discouraged yet he took down another volume and examined that. He came to a page with only one entry on it. In this there was no attempt to disguise the handwriting. It was that of the old curate of Croyden Abbey, who had died, and whose place Mr. Hoffman now filled. The ink here was heavy and black, and the entry read as follows:

      "In the absence of the minister of the parish, I have this day united in the bonds of matrimony Sir Robert Rupel of Croyden Abbey and Margaret Babbington of the Village of Croyden."

      "So the old curate was as deep in the mire as my father," William Rupel said, when he had finished reading the entry. "It is a good thing that he is dead and not able to tell the tale. I have nothing to fear now if I can only procure a marriage certificate. There is something that I never thought of until now. I wonder if they have made any entry of Madge Babbington's death? If they have not, I will have to provide for this and get a certificate of burial."

      This was not so difficult to find, for a few days after the entry of his birth William Rupel found the entry of his mother's death. This was also made in the handwriting of the curate of Croyden Abbey.

      "This has been cleverly done," he thought, after he had placed the books back on the shelf where they belonged, and prepared to go back to the hall. He did not notice that any one had entered the vestry as he was putting the books away, and as he was about to leave the room by a side-door some one hailed him. He turned around and discovered his step-brother, Clarence, standing in the center of the apartment. A number of thoughts rushed into his mind at once, and when he encountered Clarence's searching look he seemed somewhat confused.

      "What were you examining the records for?" asked Clarence, with a sneer. "Are you afraid you won't get the estates, William, and you want to fix up the registers?"

      At this Rupel's face turned pale, and for a few minutes he did not give any reply. At last he said:

      "Clarence, you wrong me. You know that if the estates were not legally mine I would not keep them one hour."

      "Oh, yes," retorted Clarence, "that is what all prating hypocrites declare."

      "Take care, Clarence, what you say," cried William, as he clinched his hands and made a step towards his step-brother, "Remember who you. are speaking to, and that I have it in my power to make you respect me."

      "What would you do, you —?" cried Clarence, with an oath, and his face wearing a black and threatening look. He inherited his father's ugly temper, and he was now perfectly wild with rage. He did not wait for his step-brother to give any reply, but he jumped forward and gave William a furious blow in the face. He found out his mistake in a few minutes, when William returned the blow with a stinging left-hander, which sent Clarence flying to the other end of the room, where he fell to the floor in a heap.

      "Get up!" ordered William; as he came forward and took hold of Clarence's arm, assisting him to his feet. "Let this be a lesson to you in future, Clarence. Remember that I am master of Croyden Abbey now, and I will not put up with any more insults from you or your mother, as I did when my father was alive."

      "You can't crow over me until the will is found; you don't know what that may contain."

      "That will be found in a very short time, as soon as the papers have been properly looked over," answered William, in a manner that was now very cool and collected.

      "William, I hate you! I don't believe that you are the heir to the Croyden estates. I don't believe that your mother was ever married to my father."

      "Could he know anything?" thought William, and then he answered Clarence:

      "You don't know what you are saying, Clarence. I am a legitimate child, the same as you are, and the records can prove it."

      "I don't believe the records. Entries can be forged as well as wills and other documents."

      This retort made William — start, but he retained his — composure and replied:

      "Clarence, if you don't keep quiet and not make such outlandish statements I will be compelled to make you."

      "You, nor no one else, can do that. Take that ——"

      "Hold, Clarence Rupell" exclaimed a voice, and before he had time to strike his step-brother, Mr. Hoffman grasped his arm and shook him violently. The curate looked at William's face and saw that it retained the marks of the first blow, and he demanded, in a severe voice:

      "What is the meaning of this disturbance? If any one should hear of this there would be a great scandal."

      "He's a usurper," cried Clarence, as he tried to jerk his arm away from the curate, but he found that his efforts were useless, as the grip was too strong.

      William explained to his friend the whole matter relating to the meeting between his step-brother and himself, sand ended by saying:

      "If Clarence doesn't behave himself as a gentleman should, I shall be compelled to send him away from England, for it will not do for me to run the risk of having my reputation spoiled by the indiscreet actions of such as he."

      Mr. Hoffman now spoke to Clarence long and earnestly, but it seemed as if his words were thrown away, for when they left the church together, closely followed by William. he ground his teeth in rage, and when he left Mr. Hoffman at the corner of one of the streets in the village, he muttered, as he looked after the retiring figures of his step-brother and the curate:

      "Curse you both. I hate you, and I will yet be revenged on William."

      He hurried along until he came to a cottage at the outskirts of the town. He stopped before this, took a key from his pocket and entered. Before he closed the door a young woman came running to him, threw her arms around his neck, and exclaimed:

      "Oh, Clarence, I am so glad that you have come!"

      William Rupel and the curate returned to the hall, and then they went to Madge Babbington's room together. Here, after a short consultation with the sick woman, Mr. Hoffman left her alone with William. Madge had told the curate, as well as all others except her son, that her name was Margaret Fuller. When mother and son were alone together, William told Madge all about the. records at the church, and ended by saying:

      "Mother, now all that I desire is a marriage certificate and a will."

      "Since they were cautious enough to fix the records," answered the mother, "they may have provided a certificate of marriage also. Last night, in the study, I was fortunate in being able to carry off with me a bundle of papers belonging to your father. Here they are; look them through and see what they contain."

      She handed the papers to her son. He took them, and with trembling hands commenced to untie the string which bound them together. After looking through nearly all of them, he at last picked up two that were yellow with age. One of them proved to be a marriage certificate, signed by the old curate, the other an old will that had been signed.

      This document willed all the property and the title belonging to Sir Robert Rupel to his son William. In it there was no word said about Clarence or his mother, and it is reasonable to suppose that it must have been written before Clarence was born.

      When William Rupel finished reading, he said to s mother:

      "All this will needs is a signature, and I think that I can provide that."

      "How will you make the ink appear the same as that in the body of the document?"

      "I can fix that easily enough."

      He then locked the door of the room and took a seat at the table, where there was an inkstand and pens. He next took some ink from the bottle and poured it into a saucer, diluting the fluid with water. He wrote his father's name several times on some waste paper, and then he dried the ink over the fire and compared the color with that in the will.

      "It is the same color exactly," he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Now for the signature."

      Again he practiced several times on the waste paper, and then wrote the signature at the bottom of the will. When the ink was dry he folded the papers together and handed them back to his mother, saying:

      "There, mother, you can keep them until some inquiry is made, and then you can give the papers up and explain how they came into your possession."

      "I will do my best for you, William, and I hope that I will live long enough to see your plans successfully carried out. May Heaven bless you, my son. Don't look so depressed; you have committed no crime."

      "I'm a forger," murmured William, as he stood by his mother's bedside with bowed head.

      "Don't think any more of that, William; you are justified in doing what you have done. Kiss me, and say that you forgive your mother for all the harm that she has done you."

      William bent over the sick woman, and kissed her. His mother clasped her frail arms around his neck, and cried piteously for some time. She then kissed him several times, and released him. As he was about to leave the room she called him and said, as she took the locket and chain from her neck:

      "William, take this: and wear it next to your heart, and when I am dead and gone, and you look at it, think kindly of your poor mother."

      "I will do it, mother," he answered, as he took the locket and chain and placed it safely in his vest-pocket. He left the room and went downstairs, with the intention of seeing his step-mother and talking with her about the actions of her son.

      He knew when he went into the parlor that he would not be able to convince Lady Anne that Clarence was in the wrong, but he determined to let her know about the quarrel, and to tell her that unless his step-brother reformed, he would be compelled to send him away. He was surprised when he walked into the room to find that Mr. Hoffman was sitting by his step-mother's side, and that the curate had already told her about the fracas in the vestry-room of the church.

(To be continued)

"WILLIAM, I am sorry that this unpleasant affair has happened between you and Clarence. Surely this never would have occurred if you had not said something to provoke the dear boy," said Lady Anne, the minute William entered the parlor.

      "Lady Anne, it would be of no use for me to tell you that your son was in the wrong, and that he provoked the assault — in fact, he first assaulted me — for you would not believe me," William, answered in a haughty manner.

      "Mr. Hoffman has just told me all about it, and "says that Clarence is to blame. I must see the darling boy, and get him to tell me all about it. I can't think that he is wrong. You are all the time doing something to annoy him."

      Lady Anne said this in such a manner that one who was listening to the conversation at the time would have supposed that Clarence and herself were terribly misused by William, whereas his conduct toward his step-mother up to this time was always deferential.

      "This is disgusting," murmured Rupel. "She is so wrapped up in her son that she thinks him an angel, and not capable of doing any wrong."

      William then took a seat on the sofa, and for some time remained silent. Lady Anne looked at her step-son in an indifferent manner, and fanned herself with a handsome silk fan as she rocked back and forth in a rocking-chair. She did not seem to be much affected by her husband's death, and perhaps if the whole truth were known, she was glad that he was out of the way.

      "Lady Anne," William said, after he had finished thinking, "something will have to be done with Clarence. He is doing things every day that will disgrace us if he is allowed to go on. He will have to reform or I shall send him away."

      "Pray tell me what right you have to send him away?" asked her ladyship, in a sarcastic manner.

      "The right as owner of Croyden Abbey."

      "Indeed! How do you know that you have that right? Your father's will has not been found."

      "I am Sir Robert Rupel's eldest son, and as regards the will, there are no doubts but what it will be found."

      At this moment a servant entered the room and handed William a note. He looked at the address and recognized the handwriting as that of his step-brother. He broke the seal hurriedly, and when he had finished reading the letter he turned to Mr. Hoffman and said:

      "Frank, will you come with me to my room? I want to speak to you about some business of importance."

      "I will be with you in a few minutes," answered the curate; "you go on ahead; I want to say a few words to her ladyship."

      William left the room, and when he had gone the curate said to Lady Anne:

      "Your ladyship ought to try and persuade Clarence to give up his evil ways."

      "Mr. Hoffman, it is no use for you to try and convince me that my son has done anything wrong, for I will not listen to it."

      "Your ladyship knows best," replied the curate, "but if you don't take good advice about this matter and listen to reason you will regret it."

      "I'll regret nothing."

      "It is no use then for me to say anything further. I will go now and see what Will wants."

      "Yes, go and concoct some plan to injure my son."

      "Lady Anne, you wrong both Will and myself; neither one of us wishes Clarence any harm," the — curate answered, as he left the parlor and then went straight to his friend's room.

      When the curate entered Rupel's apartment, he found his friend walking up and down the floor and laboring under a great deal of excitement.

      "What's the matter, Will?" Mr. Hoffman asked, as soon as he had taken a seat.

      "Read this and you will find out," answered William, as he handed the curate the letter that he had received while in the parlor.

      Mr. Hoffman took the note and read the contents. When he had finished reading his face became serious, and he said:

      "Clarence must have written this note without thinking. I will go and see him and get him to withdraw this challenge, as you cannot accept it."

      "Frank, I hardly know what to do. He says I must fight with him, and if I don't he will try to kill me in another way, and brand me as a coward."

      "I will get him to withdraw it," said the curate, as he folded the note up and placed it in his pocket.

      "If he should not consent to withdraw it — what then?"

      The curate thought for a long time, and it seemed as if he were weighing in his mind all sides of the question. He then looked up and said, in a solemn and decided manner:

      "Well, if Clarence does not consent to withdraw this foolish challenge you must accept and fight. Although I am a minister, and ought not to approve of duels, still I will put by my profession for the time and act as your second."

      "Frank, how can I ever repay you for this kindness? May God bless you for this!" exclaimed William, with a tremor in his voice, and tears started to his eyes as he clasped his friend's hand and shook it warmly. "I will do anything in the world for Clarence if he will only act rightly. Go see him, and try and persuade him that I wish him no harm."

      "I'll go now, and I hope when I return that I will have good news for you."

      "Thank you!"

      "So be it," the curate replied, as he put on his hat and coat and left the room, intending to go direct to the village inn and see Clarence, who was waiting at the Rupel Arms for an answer.

      Clarence had not stayed long at the cottage, but went to the Rupel Arms — a quiet inn at the outskirts of the village — where he wrote the note to his step-brother, and despatched it by a young man — the son of a farmer — whom he had let into his secret, and asked to act as his second.

      The curate met the young man in the hall, and the two then went to the Rupel Arms, where they found Clarence sitting at a table, bathing his eye with ice; and slowly sipping a glass of brandy-and-water. When they entered the room Clarence looked up, and when he recognized the curate a scowl came over his face, and he muttered, with an oath:

      "What can that Hoffman want? I suppose he has come to preach and pray with me, and to ask me to apologize to that cur. I'll not do it for any one. William has got to fight me. Well, what do you want?"

      This last sentence was said aloud as Mr. Hoffman came up to the table.

      "Clarence, I have come to get you to withdraw this challenge," said the curate, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder.

      "Look here, Hoffman, I want to tell you one thing right here, and that is, I want none of your meddling. Understand that and get out. William Rupel has got to fight me."

      This was said in a savage manner, and Clarence's face assumed a look of hatred and revenge.

      "Since you will it so, William will fight you, and I will act as his second," quietly rejoined the curate.

      "You — you act as William's second! Ain't you afraid that your bishop will come down on you heavily when he hears of you taking part in a duel?"

      "I'm willing to suffer the consequences. I never desert a friend when he has need of my counsel and support."

      "All right, Mr. Parson; go back to the abbey and give my compliments to your principal, and tell him to choose his weapons and place of meeting."

      "Remember, if anything serious comes of this, that I gave you good advice which you would not listen to."

      Mr. Hoffman returned to the abbey and informed William of all that had taken place at the Rupel Arms. When he had finished speaking William became calmer and said:

      "Inform Clarence that I choose swords as my weapon, and that the time and place of meeting shall be to-night at midnight, by the side of the lake. It will be moonlight, and we can see as well as by daylight."

      The curate left the room and went to make preparations for the coming duel, while William Rupel sat down at his desk and commenced to arrange his affairs. The rest of the afternoon and all that evening William wrote until Mr. Hoffman arrived, and it was not until half-past eleven that he finished the last page of the document that he had been writing. When this was done he folded it, placed it in a sealed envelope and handing it to his friend, said:

      "Frank, keep this, and if I die, open it and read what I have written. Now, if you are ready, we will start. Have you got the swords? Did you procure a surgeon?"

      Being assured that everything had been attended to, the two friends left the abbey and went direct to the place of meeting. They did not have long to wait, for a few minutes after they reached the spot Clarence and his second were seen coming from the direction of the village. They were accompanied by a third party who proved to be the surgeon. The moon was shining brightly, and as it cast its rays upon the white snow it sparkled like so much silver. It was a beautiful night, and not a sound was heard to break the stillness except the rustling of the stripped limbs of the trees as they swayed back and forth in the breeze.

      The swords were taken from their cases and tried by the seconds. Both of the men then took off their coats and stripped to their shirts.

      Word was given to commence, and the two swords clashed together, making the woods ring with their noise. Not a word was spoken by either of the men, and they went at their work in dear earnest. William's face was pale and haggard, while Clarence's was flushed and black with hatred. Blow after blow was given, exchanged and parried without any effect. Both men were excellent swordsmen, and the duel promised to be a long one. Back and forth they swayed, dodging a thrust and giving another in return, until at last Clarence became exasperated with the delay, when he swung his sword around his head three times and aimed a terrific blow at William's head. If this had struck his antagonist it would have cut his head completely in two; but William Rupel noticed Clarence's action in time to prevent any harm being done, and before his step-brother was aware of it his sword flew into the air and fell at his feet.

      "There, Clarence," said William, "I hope you are satisfied now. I could wound you if I desired to."

      "No, I am not satisfied. We fight until either you or I die!" cried Clarence, with rage, as he picked up his weapon, and before William could avoid it, he dealt him a deadly thrust in the side. The weapon went completely through William Rupel's body, and with a cry of agony he fell to the ground at his step-brother's feet.

      "I guess I have killed "him," said Clarence, coolly, as he drew his sword out of the wound, put on his overcoat, and turned to his second, to whom he spoke as follows:

      "I will have to ship, now that I have killed him. The train leaves for London at two o'clock, and if we hurry we can catch it and be miles away before the authorities know anything about this affair. Come."

      Without waiting to ascertain what might be the result, he led the way to the station, and he and his second were soon out of sight.

      When William fell, Mr. Hoffman and the surgeon bent over him to find out how serious the wound was.

      "I am afraid that this is fatal," said the surgeon, after a close examination.

      "Let us carry him to the Hall," said Mr. Hoffman.

      The surgeon and the curate lifted William up, after they had tied bandages around the wound to stop some of the flow of blood, and then carried him to his room. The curate left the surgeon alone with his friend, and went back to the place where the duel had been fought. He picked up the swords, and after he had covered up the bloodstains with snow, he went back to the abbey.

      Until dawn the surgeon and the curate worked with their wounded friend, and were at last rewarded to see him open his eyes, and ask for a drink of water.

      "He is conscious now," said the surgeon, as he took Hoffman aside. "If he is kept perfectly. quiet, and not allowed to excite himself, he may pull through. The wound is a serious one, and if the sword had cut an inch higher it would have cut the heart, and he would now be dead. Watch by his side for a few hours, when I will return and relieve you."

      The surgeon then gave William some medicine which caused him to fall into a quiet slumber, and after giving the curate some directions, he left the house.

      It was not long after the physician left William's room, before there came a rap at the door, which was immediately answered by the curate, who found it was his friend's valet.

      "Please, sir, I beg yer pardon, but the sick woman wants to see his lordship," said the man, as he entered.

      "What does she want?" inquired the curate.

      "Shes very weak, and the nurse says that she thinks she is dying. Lady Anne is in the room with the woman."

      "You stay here and watch your master, while I go and see if she is really as bad as you think."

      With that Hoffman left the room, and proceeded — immediately to the room where Madge Babbington lay dying.

      As he entered the apartment a curious and exciting scene met his gaze. He found Lady Anne struggling with the sick woman, and trying to tear something from her hand.

      "Lady Anne, you shan't have these papers unless you promise me solemnly that you will deliver them to Sir William," cried Madge, gasping for breath.

      "I won't promise you anything!" exclaimed her ladyship. "Those papers are mine; they belonged to my husband. Neither you nor William have any right to them."

      "They interest Sir William, and not you. His father's will is here, and he ought to have it."

      "I tell you he shan't have it; it must be destroyed for my son's sake."

      "It must not be destroyed for my — I mean Sir William's sake."

      "If you don't give them to me, I will strangle you to death!" yelled her ladyship, and at the same time she grasped Madge by the throat and commenced to carry out her threat.

      "Hold, Lady Anne! What would you do?" exclaimed Mr. Hoffman, stepping forward and pushing Lady Anne aside.

      "What right have you to interfere in this matter?" demanded her ladyship in a towering rage as she faced the curate, who was now bending over the sick woman.

      "The right of any person to stop you or any one else from committing a fearful crime."

      "Do you dare to say that I would commit a crime?"

      "I dare say anything. I am Sir William's friend and I am here to protect his interests. Your ladyship is not aware of what you were about to do." At this point Madge raised herself in the bed, and with a desperate effort said to Hoffman:

      "You say that you are Sir William Rupel's friend. I give these papers to you and beg of you to deliver them safely to him. Where is he now?"

      "He is asleep in his room."

      "I want to see him."

      "It will be impossible for him to come you now as he is sick, an accident having happened to him last night while he was on his way from the village."

      "Take those papers and tell him that ——"

      Further utterance was cut off by a hemorrhage.

(To be continued)

IN a few minutes afterwards Madge's sorrows were over, and her soul was in another world.

      Mr. Hoffman took up the papers and put them away carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. He then turned to speak to Lady Anne, but found that she had left the room, and he was alone with the corpse.

      Thus Madge had died, and the secret of her life died with her. No one knew of her relationship to William Rupel. The forged will was now in the possession of Mr. Hoffman, who had Lady Anne in his power, if he should ever choose to expose what he had seen her attempt to do.

 

      It was the night after the duel. The day following there had been a thaw, and the streets of London were full of slush and mud. The snow was falling in thick flakes, so that it was impossible for the passer-by to see any great distance ahead of him. The light of the street lamps looked pale and sickly. Very few persons were abroad, and in the unfrequented parts of the city everything was as quiet as a grave-yard. "The slums" was also quiet. Only the occasional hoarse laugh of some party of carousers in issuing from some low drinking saloon broke the silence which encompassed the surroundings.

      It was through one of the dirtiest of streets belonging to the slums that the figures of two men were noticed to be hurrying along, as if they had a certain point to reach, at a given time, and that that time was almost past. They were both muffled about the head with large comforters, and only a small space was left open below the eyes, so that they could see.

      "We're late now," said the younger of the two as they came under the rays of the street light.

      "He'll wait for us," rejoined the other in a coarse voice as he pushed on. With an oath he demanded:

      "Do you think that he will undertake the job?" queried the young man, who by his conversation showed that he belonged to an entirely different rank of life than his companion.

      "No doubt. I saw him this afternoon, and he said that for a good round sum of money he will do whatever you want him to do."

      "I'm short of cash at this moment, as you know. I wish that I had killed that dog instead of only wounding him."

      "Well, you did your best, and it was through no fault of yours that he now lives. Can't you forge his name to a check? He won't be able to leave the house for some time, and he will not discover the deficiency in his bank account until it is too late, and if our friend succeeds he will never discover it, and you will be the owner of the property."

      "What you suggest is a good idea, but then I am afraid to risk it, Hold! I may be able to suggest something better. Do you think that he will take a portion of the money now, and the balance after has done the job?"

      "Why do you ask?"

      "Because if he will, I may be able to get some money from my mother."

      "How much do you think that you can get?"

      "About five hundred pounds."

      "Are you sure of that?"

      "Almost sure. She promised to let me have that amount for another purpose, and I can get it and use it for this."

      "If you can do this then we will be all right. Well, here we are at last." Bang! bang! bang!

      This last remark was made as the twain stopped before a dingy-looking grog-shop, in the center of the block of the long and narrow street which they had been traversing. Here and there from the dirty windows of the equally dirty tenements shone the light of a candle, but beyond this there were no other lights in the street. The shop at which they had stopped and rapped on the door was enveloped in darkness. It was after midnight, and the customers had left some hours before.

      Bang! bang! bang!

      Again went the foot of the young man's companion against the door, and then he demanded in a loud voice:

      "Why, in the name of the fiend can't you let us in, and not keep us waiting outside in the cold."

      No response, and again bang! bang! bang! bang! bang! Followed by a series of oaths that all the imps of darkness could not have improved upon if they had tried.

      "I thought he would not wait for us," said the young man.

      "Yes, he did; here he comes," answered his companion, as a shuffling of feet was heard coming toward the door. Then bolts were drawn, and a minute after the two men stood in the center of the saloon, and were confronted by a tall, well-built man, with a dark face, which wore a scowl, that showed that he was mad about something. With an oath he demanded:

      "Why didn't you come at the time appointed? I was just preparing to go out, and go down to the crib."

      "We were delayed by a little accident," returned the young man, as he unwound his comforter, and displayed to view his face. It was Clarence Rupel and his companion was the man who had acted as his second. His eye still bore the traces of the blow, notwithstanding the fact that he had tried to have it disguised by having it painted.

      "Come into the back room," said the owner of the saloon, after he had bolted the door; "there we can talk without the fear of being disturbed."

      The man led the way into a small room behind the saloon. In the center was a rickety deal table, an around this was placed a number of chairs. The ceiling was so covered with cobwebs that it was impossible to tell what color it had originally been. The walls were hung with flashy prints, the lower ones of which were covered with daubs of tobacco-juice. The floor was worse than the walls, and as Clarence Rupel took a seat at the table with his companion, he shuddered when he looked at the filth that surrounded him. The man whom they had come to see noticed the look of disgust on his visitor's face, and he remarked as he took a seat opposite to him:

      "Well, my covey, the surroundings don't seem to agree with your stomach. No Brussels carpet here; no lace curtains, eh?" and as he let forth a chuckle, he seemed to enjoy what he had said, and think it was amusing.

      "Fred Kissam," said the man to Clarence Rupel's companion, "you said something this afternoon about a job that you wanted put through?"

      "Yes," answered Clarence's second, who was an evil-visaged fellow, dark-complexioned, and short and stout in build, and from his appearance one could see, that he would stoop to almost anything if he were well paid for it. "Yes, yes, my young friend here will tell you more about it than I can, Ben Sherman."

      "Your name is Clarence Rupel?" said the man addressed as Ben Sherman. "You are the brother of William Rupel, the noted member of the House of Commons?"

      "I am."

      "You "fought a duel with him last night, and he is now lying at Croyden Abbey suffering from the wound which you inflicted?"

      "I fought: the duel."

      "The doctors state that he will recover?"

      "Yes."

      "There's where you are doing wrong, my friend," said Ben Sherman coolly, as his brow was overcast with a frown; "better let him get well. If he dies now, the news of the duel will go abroad, and you will have to suffer for killing him. If you let him get well, then you can have him tackled, and no one will suspect you."

      "I never thought of that."

      "It's always well to look at all sides. This is a very sky piece of business on account of him being so prominent."

      "How much will you take to do the job?" asked Clarence, after a short silence.

      "I didn't say that I would do it," cautiously replied Sherman, and in an offhand manner, as if it did not concern him in any way.

      "Fred led me to infer that you were perfectly safe, and that you would take charge of this matter if I paid you well," said Clarence Rupel, with a look of chagrin on his face.

      "Well, I might be induced to take charge of this for you, providing you pay well. How much are you willing to give?"

      "How much do you want?"

      "The thing is risky — let me see." Sherman rested his head on his hands for some moments in deep thought, and then he raised his face, and asked:

      "How would £2,000 suit you?"

      "That's a large sum of money," answered Rupel.

      "No doubt; but, then, the risks are great," answered the saloonkeeper; "and then I will have to get some one to assist me."

      "Well, I'll agree to pay you that."

      "All right; let's have that in writing," said "Ben, arising from the table and going to a small closet, from which he took pen, paper and ink, and placed them before Clarence.

      "I don't care to write anything," said Clarence, his face ashy white, and great beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead.

      "Well, then, I don't care to do the job," answered Ben Sherman, in a dogged manner.

      "Not if I pay you the money?"

      "An agreement is an agreement, and you gents sometimes forget what you promise. You have promised me £2,000, and I want you to make that promise in writing, unless you can give me the money immediately."

      "I can't do that."

      "I thought so. You might go away from here to-night, and, after we next meet, you might say you never agreed to give me anything."

      "Well, I will give you a promise in writing," answered Clarence, as he took the pen in his trembling hand and wrote the promise as Ben Sherman dictated it. When this was done the man said:

      "I want £500 in cash right away, and the balance" when I accomplish the job."

      "I'll pay you that in a few days," answered Clarence, as he and Fred arose and prepared to go.

      "You must get it by to-morrow night," said the man, and he showed by his manner unless his demand was complied with that he would refuse to do anything.

      "I'll try and do it," answered Clarence.

      "There is no trying. You must have it."

      "Ben, give us a few days," urged Kissam.

      "I have told you to-morrow night, and unless that money is forthcoming then, I will blow on the whole scheme."

      "All right. Keep faith with us, Mr. Sherman," said Clarence, in a frightened voice, "and we will keep faith with you."

      The two then left Ben Sherman's, and after they were out of sight that villain said, as he closed the door:

      "What fools some men are! Here is this young cove, for instance, who gave me this piece of paper to-night. If I should choose to squeal on him this signature of his would convict him. He is in my power now, and he will have to do as I say. £2,000! Ha! ha! ha! He is lucky if he gets off with ten times that amount. Hello! what is this?"

      This exclamation was occasioned by Ben Sherman stumbling over a dark object which was lying on the floor. The saloonkeeper held the light so that its rays would fall on the object, and the minute he did so, there was displayed to view the form of a woman. She seemed to be fast asleep. Stooping over her, Sherman caught her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously.

      "It's Nell," he said, as he shock her again. Receiving no response, he placed the lamp upon the bar, stooped down, put his arm around the delicate form, and lifted her upon her feet. As he did this, the woman's hat fell to the floor, and her shawl dangled from one shoulder.

      "Nell, Nell, wake up," Sherman demanded, as he shook her more vigorously with both hands.

      "Let me alone," she murmured, as she opened her eyes for a moment and then closed them again.

      "Wake up. How comes it that you are here at this hour? I thought that you went home before I locked up."

      "Let me alone!"

      "I'll not — wake up and tell me why you are here so late?"

      "I don't know."

      "You don't know?"

      "No; where am I?"

      "At the Customs."

      "Oh, I remember now," said the woman, who was now fully awake. She put her hand in her pocket and then jumped suddenly to her feet.

      "Ben, Ben, my pocketbook is gone," she excitedly exclaimed, as she clutched the man's arm. "Yes, yes, and my ear-rings, too," she said, as she placed her hands up to her ears.

      "The devil you say! Who were you with last?"

      "I don't remember."

      "Think!"

      "I can't. All that I remember is that two men came in when you went behind the bar. They sat down at this table, and that is all I know."

      "Do you know what they looked like?"

      "No."

      "Well, the things are gone, and there is no use crying over spilt milk. I'll try and find out who did it, and if I catch them I'll make them suffer. Put your things on and we will go over to the Crib."

      The woman did as she was ordered. As she stood go that the rays of the light fell on her, she displayed a remarkably pretty face and handsome form. A wealth of dark-brown hair covered her head, and her eyes shone with brilliancy as she looked at the man before her. She was well dressed, and her attire was out of keeping with her present surroundings. When one looked closely at her face and that of Ben Sherman, one could see a marked resemblance. She was pretty, while her brother's features were nothing more than ordinary. Her language was choice and well selected, and in fact she had the whole bearing of a woman of the best society.

      She was of great aid to her brother in all of his most dangerous undertakings, and she acquitted herself so well en all occasions, that finally the men with whom she associated called her by the nickname of Queen Nell. This was not an empty name, for to a certain extent she was queen among them, and they always went to her for advice about the most difficult jobs. This she freely gave, and if the whole truth were known, she planned the greater portion of the most daring robberies. She had thus far avoided the vigilance of the London detectives, and proved herself far superior to them in some things. Her knowledge of men and of the city was extensive. Her ways of life were varied. One day she would be living at her handsomely furnished apartments on Saville Row, and the next in the dingy rooms of the Crib, in the center of the slums.

      At her house in Saville Row, she was known by the name of the Countess de Bouillon. She spoke French fluently, and had managed to gather around her the best society in London. When she took up her residence in those quarters a few years before, she was supposed to be an American heiress who had married a French count who died shortly after they were married. The supposed widow was greatly sought after by the young London swells, among whom she had many ardent admirers. Her beauty was the leading topic of the clubs for some time, and finally she succeeded in becoming a leader of the fashions of the set to which she belonged: She always spent large sums of money, and gave lavish and expensive receptions. This confirmed the fact that she must be worth a great deal of money, or she never could afford to support such an establishment. As she was acknowledged to be the Queen of the Slums by her brother's associates, so she was acknowledged to be, to some extent, a queen of the beauty of the upper-tendom of London society.

      As Ben Sherman and his sister were leaving the Customs he turned. and said:

      "Nell, I have a job on hand that I want you to aid me in."

      "All right, Ben; I shall do my best to make it successful if there is enough money in it."

      They now walked hurriedly along the dirty street toward the part of the slums where the Crib was situated. The countess asked:

      "How much money is there in this thing?"

      "Two thousand pounds, and more besides if we play our cards properly."

      As they passed on out of sight the figure of a man came from the darkness of a doorway, and, as he looked in the direction the couple had gone, he murmured:

      "Two thousand pounds if we play properly. I wonder what is up. Some big game to be bagged no doubt. I will find out. I think I know the man. It's Ben Sherman, the keeper of the Customs. I don't know the woman. Her face was too closely veiled, and in the hurry of their passing I was not able to catch distinctly the sound of her voice. I will follow them and see where they go. If there be anything new in the wind Scotland Yard will catch on to it. £2,000 — there must be big game somewhere."

      Phil Roach, the detective, pulled the collar of his coat up closer about his ears, pulled his hat more over his eyes, and started off at a brisk pace in the direction in which Ben Sherman and his sister had gone. For some blocks he went on, when at last he stopped, and said:

      "I've missed them. They must have turned some corer, or gone into some one or other of these numerous tenements. They won't do anything to-night, it's evident, as — it will soon be daylight. I'll keep a sharp watch after Mr. Sherman, and find out what he is up to."

      So saying, the detective started off, making his way toward Scotland Yard, which he reached at five o'clock. He received some orders from his superior about a case which he had in hand, and, without saying anything to any one about what he had heard, he gave in his report, left the Yard, and went to his lodgings.

      Phil Roach was one of the smartest detectives of the Scotland Yard force, and was always given the most difficult cases to work up. He very seldom failed, and was feared greatly by all the desperate characters in London. Hundreds of attempts had been made upon his life, but he always managed to thwart his enemies.

      He was an Irishman by birth. When he was quite young his parents had moved to London, where they died soon after their arrival, and Phil was thrown on his own resources. A noted detective was attracted by the brightness of the lad one day, when he was working up a case in the slums, and after hearing the boy's story, he adopted him, gave him a fair education, and trained him for the profession in which in after life he became so noted.

      Phil Roach was a man of about thirty years of age; he was tall and slim; had light hair and a pair of light-gray eyes, which gave him a sort of dreamy appearance. He was not dreamy, though, by any means, and when excited about anything his eyes would sparkle like diamonds.

      He was gifted with what people ordinarily call "second sight." He had cultivated this faculty and had found it to be of great aid to him. He never boasted of what he had seen when he was in a materialistic state, and few of his comrades knew of his possessing any greater powers than they did.

      Another thing that had made him so successful, perhaps, was his close attention to the smallest details of the case that he might have in hand. He never passed by a thing as insignificant, but gave it as much attention as if it had been the most important clue.

      It was this close attention to small things which had made him prick up his ears at what he had heard Ben Sherman say, and made him determine that he would find out what the conversation meant.

(To be continued)

THE Easter holidays had passed. Both houses of Parliament were now in session. William Rupel had fully recovered from the wound which he had received in the duel and was now in his seat in the House of Commons. Clarence returned from London and was now spending a short time with his mother at Croyden Abbey. Lady Anne and William had established a truce between one another, and although her ladyship hated the new knight, still at the same time she did not show her hatred openly, for fear that he might use his authority and compel her and her son to leave the abbey, which was now acknowledged to be William's property, since his father's will had been recorded.

      When William recovered from his wound he said nothing to Clarence about the duel, and to all appearances he treated him the same as if nothing had ever happened between them. Clarence was very deferential toward his step-brother whenever they met, which was very seldom, and, to a casual observer, it seemed as if the members of the family were living in happiness. But for all this appearance of tranquillity there was a strong undercurrent at work. Lady Anne and Clarence held long conferences in William Rupel's absence from the abbey, and this was owing to the fact that Clarence had taken his mother into his confidence and revealed to, her everything relating to his plot against his step-brother, all of which received her heartiest approval. He had been compelled to do this on account of his shortness of funds. He received the £500 from his mother and had given it to Ben Sherman, who as yet had not done anything in the way of carrying out his part of the contract. This man's demands for money had become so frequent, and Clarence, being afraid to forge his brother's name, as suggested by Fred Kissam, in a moment of desperation, one evening after he had heard his mother express a wish that she would be glad if something would happen to kill William, told of the compact which he had made with Ben Sherman. Lady Anne listened to what her son had to say, and when he was through speaking, she said:

      "Clarence, if I thought that this scheme would be successful I would give you all the money that belongs to me."

      "It can't help but be successful," rejoined her son, in a tone of confidence, now that he saw that his mother did not disapprove of what he had been doing.

      "Don't you think that there will be some danger of our being found out?" asked her ladyship.

      "None whatever, mother; all we will have to do will be to pay Ben Sherman the money, and he will accomplish the deed of getting William away a prisoner."

      "Why has he not done it before this?"

      "He says he wants to wait a short time until after the. adjournment of Parliament. If he should do it now, while William is so prominent before the public, there will be a great hue and cry raised, and all the detectives in the kingdom will be put on the case; but if he waits until a Parliament adjourns there will be a better chance, and the risks will not be as great as they would be if he should do anything now."

      "The man undoubtedly is correct. Let him have what money he desires, but don't mention my name to him."

      "I shall not."

      "Clarence," said her ladyship, when he was about to leave the room, "there is another matter that I have wanted to speak to you about for some time."

      "What is it, mother?"

      "You remember what I told you about the scene in Margaret Fuller's room the day she died, and how that Hoffman prevented me from destroying the will."

      "Yes?"

      "Well, ever since then I have been afraid of that fellow, and afraid that he will say something about my actions on that occasion."

      "What if he does? You can deny it."

      "I wonder if he has told William?"

      "I think not. I don't see why you should be afraid of him."

      "But I am, and if there were any means of getting him out of England also, I would be willing to pay well. If anything should happen to William I am afraid that his suspicions would be aroused."

      "Mother, if you say for me to tell Sherman about this I will do so."

      "If you can arrange with him without any risk you can do so."

      "All right. I will see that he does not annoy you, and in a short time you will have no occasion to be afraid."

      "Can you trust this man whom you call Ben Sherman?"

      "He is safe, and as long as we fee him well he will act squarely."

      "Well, remember and be cautious."

      "I will."

      This was said as Clarence was leaving the room. He went to his own apartment, packed a valise, and that evening found him in London, safely lodged in his city apartments. Immediately on his arrival he despatched a messenger to Ben Sherman, and asked him to call without delay. Fred Kissam had been taken into Clarence's employ, and was now acting as his valet. So matters stood at the opening of the Houses of Parliament. Mr. Hoffman was in London helping his friend, whose duties had come so numerous that he was compelled to employ four secretaries.

      William Rupel was becoming more and more popular every day. The papers were loud in their praises of the numerous reforms which he had brought before the House. Even those of the opposition acknowledged that he was a great reformer and that he was doing a great deal of good for the working classes.

      At last, about a month after the House had opened, William introduced a bill, the contents of which set every one in the whole kingdom talking about him and set party feeling running very high. Now some praised his intentions, while other denounced them. The bill was to change a law that had been in existence for hundreds of years, and was known as "The Great Forgery Bill." Before this the law in England was, in regard to a person who forged another's name, that the forger should be punished by being publicly executed. William Rupel desired to change the law so that instead of suffering death the malefactor would be imprisoned for life. The great statesman was untiring in his zeal to have his bill passed. He worked night and day among the members of both Houses, until at last, a few days before the bill was called up, he was assured by Mr. Hoffman that he thought the great measure would be carried by a large majority. Still, William was not certain. He had canvassed public opinion pretty thoroughly, and saw that he would be compelled to override a great deal of general superstition, and he spent days and nights in preparing himself to meet all the arguments that any opposition might bring forward. The day that the bill was to be called arrived. The lobbies, the galleries and even the floor of the House were packed with people. The crowd extended for an area of two blocks outside of the House, all anxiously waiting to hear what the decision of the lower House would be. At last the bill was called. William Rupel arose to his feet and addressed the House — Mr. Hoffman was by his side. The minute he commenced to speak a pin could have been heard to fall, everything was so quiet, and it continued so for the two hours that he was speaking. Every one was all attention, and followed him closely. With impassioned eloquence he went on, interrupted now and again with loud applause, The argument was a masterpiece of learning, and when he finished not a murmur of opposition was heard. Such a great speech had not been listened to for years, and murmurs of admiration were heard from all quarters. The bill passed the lower House with only ten votes against it. When this was announced loud cheers rent the air, and William Rupel's constituents crowded around him, offering all kinds of congratulations. But his work was not through yet. The bill had to go to the House of Lords. He went before that body, and his speech there was even a greater masterpiece than his one in the House of Commons. The bill passed without one dissenting voice, and now went to the queen. What would Her Majesty do? Would she veto it? These and hundreds of other questions upon this important topic were discussed daily by long-winded editorials. William Rupel waited in anxiety. To him it seemed as if he had been pleading for his own life, and he was waiting with anxiety to know what the sentence would be — life or death.

      The night after the bill passed the House of Lords, William was sitting in his apartments, talking with his friend, the Rev. Mr. Hoffman.

      "Do you know, Frank, that I am afraid the queen won't sign the bill," he said, after a short silence.

      "I don't see any reason why she should refuse to sign it. It is the greatest humanitarian measure that has been brought before Parliament for years. By the way, Will, how did you ever come to decide to make the effort to change the law?" asked Mr. Hoffman.

      "I was examining the criminal code one day, when this law struck me as being not only unjust but cruel, and then and there I determined to make an effort to have it changed," answered William, and as he said this, a shadow of pain came over his face, he rested his hand on his bosom and sighed heavily. So heartrending was the sigh that Mr. Hoffman looked up in surprise and was just about to ask what was the matter, when the stillness of the room was broken by three raps at the door.

      "Come in," said Rupel, as he arose from his chair.

      The door opened and a servant entered, bearing upon a silver tray a neatly perfumed note. William took the note, opened it and read the contents. Turning to the servant, he asked:

      "Who brought this?"

      "A man in livery."

      "Is he waiting for an answer?"

      "No, sir; he just left the note and said to hand it to you."

      "All right; you can go."

      When the servant had left the room, William turned to. Mr. Hoffman and said:

      "Frank, here is an invitation from the Countess de Bouillon, inviting you and myself to her reception to-morrow evening."

      "Who is the Countess de Bouillon?" asked Mr. Hoffman.

      "Haven't you ever heard of the countess? Oh, I forgot, Frank, that you have spent very little time in London for the past few years. Why, the Countess de Bouillon is a very charming lady, whom I had the pleasure of meeting last summer at a watering-place in France. She is an American heiress and married a French count. The count died; the countess came to London, opened an establishment, and is now one of the leaders of fashion. Her salon on reception days is crowded by the notables of both parties, all the literary lights, artists, musicians, etc. I'll accept the invitation and you will go with me to-morrow. The change will help to divert my mind for a few hours."

      "But how did the lady know my name?"

      "Oh, I have mentioned your name two or three times when I have been talking with her, and she, knowing that you were in the city, has invited you to call with me."

      "Then you are a frequent visitor at her house? Oh, I see now how the land lies," exclaimed Mr. Hoffman, as he saw his friend's face change color. "I shall go with you to-morrow evening and then I shall let you know what I think of the lady of your choice."

      "You mistake me, Frank; indeed you do," said William hurriedly. "I have not proposed to her or mentioned one word of love."

      "But you intend to do so?"

      "Perhaps."

      "It is all the same, then. I shall let you know, at all events."

      "I feel kind of tired of this close room; let us go and take a quiet stroll," suggested William, as he took a cigar from the mantel and commenced to smoke.

      It was early in the evening when the great statesman and his friend left the house and started off in the direction of Temple Bar.

      The morning after Phil Roach, the detective, overheard the conversation in the slums, he commenced his work to try and find out what that conversation related to; all his efforts so far had proved of no avail. He had kept Ben Sherman under close surveillance, but had not been able to connect him with any crime. He knew that "The Customs" was frequented by the most desperate characters, but that was about all. He had not been able to find out who the veiled woman was. The countess, after she had been drugged on the night when Clarence Rupel and Fred Kissam visited the saloon, had been more cautious about her coming and going. Now she never entered the slums unless she was so thoroughly disguised that no one could tell who she was.

      On the evening that William Rupel and Mr. Hoffman had started out to take a walk the Countess de Bouillon, after she had sent her note to the great statesman, also started out, and went in the direction of Temple Bar. She had disguised herself as an old beggar woman, and so complete was her make-up that even the most searching could not discover but what she really was what she pretended to be. On her arm she carried a basket and in her other hand a cane. Her hair was gray and straggly, and every step she took she trembled like as if she had the palsy.

      Another person had also started for Temple Bar on this evening, about the same time as the parties whom we have just mentioned. That party was Phil Roach, the detective. On this particular evening he had very little to attend to, so he concluded to visit the slums. He also assumed the disguise of a beggar. As he was crossing the Bar he ran into the old beggar woman just as she was about to solicit alms from William Rupel.

      "Axin' yere honor's pardon, but won't ye give a poor man a few pence to pay for the cost of a night's lodgin'?"

      The detective looked up into the face of the man before him; he started back and said to himself, "Sir William Rupel." The name was mentioned aloud almost by his side. It was said in a whisper, but what he heard made him look around in surprise. What he heard was this:

      "Sir William Rupel. He little dreams that £2,000 ——"

      The sentence was not finished.

      As Phil Roach looked around he saw no one except the old beggar woman, who was hobbling away at a fast rate.

      "Did ye speak, yer honor?"

      "No, my man, I did not," answered the statesman.

      "Thanks, yer honor," said the detective as he turned to go, forgetting about the alms asked for. He was going when Rupel stopped him.

      "Have you forgotten your alms, my man?"

      "Thanks, thanks, yer honor, may a thousand pleasant dreams encompass yer bed."

      With that Roach took the half sovereign and walked off. He saw the beggar woman crossing the street and he determined to follow her.

      "I could not have been mistaken. I heard the words distinctly, 'Sir William Rupel — he little dreams that £2,000' That sentence was not finished. Whoever uttered it did not mean for it to be overheard. No one was near at the time but that beggar woman, and I think that she must have been the one who spoke. I will follow her and see where she goes. Can it be that I have at last struck a clue which will help me to solve the problem on which I have. been working for so many weeks."

      With that the detective followed after the countess. When Phil passed away William turned to Mr. Hoffman and said:

      "Frank, that beggar was a curious fellow. He was going off without his alms. I don't think that he was really what he pretended."

      Rupel and Mr. Hoffman, after taking a short walk, went pack to their lodgings, little dreaming that they had been so near to the countess and that the famous detective of Scotland Yard had discovered a clue that interested them greatly.

---

CHAPTER SEVEN
A FIGHT AT THE CUSTOMS

ACROSS Temple Bar, down one street and up another, through dirty, narrow lanes, until The Customs was reached, Phil Roach, the sleuth-hound of Scotland Yard, followed the old beggar woman. She seemed to notice that she was being followed, for she led the detective a long race, and several times tried to throw him off the scent by dodging into doorways and waiting until she though that he had passed, when she would emerge and go off in another direction. At last she thought that she had got rid of her pursuer, and she hurried toward The Customs as best she could. She. straightened up and assumed her regular walk. When she thought that the person who was following her had missed her, she was greatly mistaken.

      When Roach came out of the alley the beggar's costume had disappeared, and he was attired as a workingman. He passed the beggar woman and walked on ahead of her, now that they were near The Customs. As he suspected, the woman entered, and a few minutes after she closed the door the detective followed and sat at one of the tables in the back part of the saloon. He ordered a drink and noticed that the woman stopped a few minutes at the bar, said something to Ben Sherman, and then went to the bar-room, where, in a short time, the proprietor of The Customs followed.

      The partition of the room was thin, and, by sitting close to it, Roach could hear almost everything that was being said in an ordinary tone of voice.

      "Well, Nell, how are matters progressing in upper tendom?" Ben Sherman said, as he entered the room and closed the door after him.

      "All right," gasped the countess.

      "Why, girl, what has caused you to be so short of breath?" queried Sherman, as he looked at his sister.

      "I have had a long way to come, and then, besides, I was. followed," she said.

      "Followed — by whom?"

      "I don't know. The fellow was disguised as a tramp."

      "Where is he now?"

      "I gave him the slip."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Yes, perfectly."

      "Did you look at him closely?"

      "I did when we ran against one another on Temple Bar. I met Sir William Rupel, and was about to ask for alms when this man came in between me and the statesman."

      "Who did the fellow look like?"

      "Now that I come to think of it, his eyes looked like those of Phil Roach. You know what peculiar eyes Roach has."

      "Phil Roach!"

      Just at this instant a noise was heard in the saloon. "Down the guy! Knock his head off! Pummel him! Kill the spy!"

      Bang! bang! bang!

      "Back, all of you, or I will riddle you with bullets!" cried the detective, as he dealt the barkeeper a fearful blow between the eyes, which knocked him senseless. When Ben Sherman opened the door, everything was in confusion. in the saloon. About a dozen men were standing in various positions; some with chairs in their hands grasped by the backs, others with loaded pistols pointed at the breast of the detective, and all glaring at him like so many wild beasts.

      "What's the matter?" queried Ben Sherman, as he entered the room and beheld the scene. He turned and looked at the detective — he looked a second time, and then he started and exclaimed:

      "Phil Reach!"

      "Yes, Phil Roach!" exclaimed the detective, who never flinched once.

      "Onto him, boys! Don't let the fellow leave here alive!" cried Ben Sherman, as he pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired it straight at Roach's head. The detective stepped aside, and the ball passed by harmlessly.

      Shots came from both sides. Three men fell, and still the detective remained on his feet.

      "Down with him!" yelled Ben Sherman, towering over with rage.

      "Stand back!" cried the detective in return, as some of the crowd made a motion as if they would close in on him.

      Ben Sherman fired his pistol again, and then, lifting a chair in his hand, he rushed upon Roach with all the fury of a madman. The ball passed near to the detective's head, but had no effect. The detective noticed the movement of his antagonist, and, grasping a stool that was standing by his side, he held it in readiness to ward off the coming blow.

      Crash!

      The chair in the hands of the detective fell in pieces to the floor, together with that in the hands of his assailant. With a curse Ben Sherman now closed in on Roach and clutched him by the throat. The two swayed back and forth, knocking over chairs, tables and everything else that stood in their way.

      "You sneak, you! You will spy, will you?" hissed the saloon-keeper through his teeth as he tried to disengage his arm and strike the detective in the face.

      A mishap had revealed Roach's presence in the saloon while he was listening at the partition; his chair had broken from under him and had thrown him to the floor. The sudden jar had knocked the wig from his head, and before he could replace it the barkeeper recognized him and called to the men, who were sitting at the table, to help him.

      Roach saw that his life was in imminent danger, and that he would have to fight if he wanted to get out of the place.

      Roach managed to dodge all the blows that Ben Sherman tried to level upon his head, and at last, by a quick twist of his body he threw his assailant on the floor. Seeing that the others were about to close in on him and knowing that unless he out of the den quickly, they would soon overcome him, he jumped into the center of the crowd, struck out with both fists, and before any of the men could recover from their surprise, he was out of their reach and safe in the street. On the corner he met two policemen, and, telling them who he was, he said:

      "Come with me. I want to arrest a woman in that saloon."

      The policemen obeyed, but when they reached the door of The Customs everything was dark. Phil tried the knob of the door and found that the key had been turned in the lock. Not waiting to demand admittance, Roach threw himself against the door and broke it in. When he and the officers entered everything was in darkness. They lit a lamp and found that the place was deserted. "The gang had done quick work. They had carried off their wounded companions and the barkeeper, and had made their escape.

      For some time Phil Roach and the officers searched the premises, but failed to find any of the men. They discovered that the crowd had escaped through a back window, but that was all.

      "One of you watch this place until to-morrow," ordered the detective when he was about to leave.

      "All right," rejoined the man as he closed in the iron shutters in the rear of the saloon.

      "Hello, what is this?" exclaimed Roach, when he was about to go out of the front door. He stooped down and picked up a lady's fine cambric handkerchief. He held it up to the light and discovered that it had a name written in the corner. On looking at it closely he read aloud:

      "'Countess Amelia de Bouillon.' I wonder how this came here?" he mused. "Can it be that the countess' house has been robbed. I'll preserve it, and perhaps it may prove to be of some value." So saying, he placed the handkerchief in his pocket and left the saloon with the intention of going to headquarters, reporting the row, and getting out a warrant for Ben Sherman for keeping a disorderly house.

      Phil had not gone far, and while he was passing by a dark alley he was grasped from behind, and before he could offer any resistance he was borne to the ground, gagged. and bound. The two men who had thus overcome the detective carried. him through the alley until they reached the end, which led into a street facing the water. They stopped before a large tenement-house and rapped at the door. It was opened by the countess, who still wore her disguise.

      "Nell, quick! open the door!" exclaimed Ben Sherman, who, together with Fred Kissam, had thus attacked Roach and made him a prisoner.

      They carried the detective into the room which Ben had called the "Crib," and threw him down into a corner. On looking around Phil discovered that the only occupants of the room were the woman and the two men.

      "Sit down, Nell," said Sherman, as Kissam and he took seats at a table, in the center of which was a bottle of liquor, with three glasses standing by its side.

      "Let us take a drink and then to business. We must be quick, as I have a job on hand to-night," Sherman exclaimed as he picked up the bottle and filled his glass with the liquor. His companions followed his example, and then said:

      "We will have to get rid of, this fellow in some way. What do you think is best, Nell?"

      "It will not do to kill him. See if he won't agree to not say anything about the affair to-night if we will let him go," answered the countess.

      Sherman leaned over the table and whispered in his sister's ear:

      "Nell, I don't think it will be safe to let him go. How do you know but what he knows some of our plans already?"

      "True, true; I never thought of that."

      "We will have to make way with him then," said Ben Sherman decidedly.

      "Not if he knows himself!"

      The countess and the men turned around in surprise, and were astonished to see Roach standing in the corner with two pistols in his hands, each of which was pointed at them.

      The detective, while they were talking, had managed to loosen his hands from the cords which bound them. When this was done it was an easy matter to take the gag from his mouth. Disregarding the pistols which Roach had them covered with, Sherman pulled a knife from a belt that encircled his waist, and made an attempt to reach the detective.

      "One of us must die," cried Ben, aiming a blow at the detective. He was so enraged that he did not take time to see what he was aiming at, but struck out at random. Roach was perfectly cool and managed to dodge every blow with the greatest of ease.

      The detective's left arm fell helpless to his side as a bullet from Fred Kissam's pistol struck him in the shoulder. So intent had he been watching his assailant that he did not notice what the woman and Fred Kissam were doing. Seeing now that he was in a close place and hearing a number of feet tramping along the hall and supposing them to be members of Ben Sherman's gang, the detective concluded that the best thing that he could do would be to make good his escape before any assistance came to his assailants. Accordingly, he took a hasty aim with the pistol in his right hand, and fired at Fred Kissam. The ruffian gave a despairing cry of anguish and fell across the table, upsetting the liquor and breaking the glasses. Phil followed this up by a heavy blow at Ben's head; which knocked him senseless, and he fell in the opposite corner of the room. The detective then jumped to the door. He turned the knob and found it locked. The key was gone. Every minute the tramping of feet along the hall drew nearer and nearer. Not a moment was to be lost. He turned to the countess, who was standing by the table, and said:

      "Where is the key?"

      "I don't know," replied the woman; and at the same time a smile of triumph passed over her face. She had heard the tramp of feet and she hoped that the members of the gang would arrive in time to thwart the detective.

      "You lie!" cried Phil; "you have that key in your pocket, and if you don't give it to me instantly I will not hesitate to shoot you!"

      He stepped to the woman's side and placed the muzzle of the pistol close to her temple.

      "Are you going to give it up?"

      "No!" said the countess decidedly.

      "Then die!"

      Click! went the hammer.

      "Hold! Don't shoot. Here's the key!" cried the countess as she held the key in her hand.

      Roach jerked it from her, inserted it in the lock, and flung open the door. He then darted into the hall and closed the door after him, locking it from the outside. The men whom he had heard enter the house were now within ten feet of him. None of them had seen him as yet, although they had heard the noise of the struggle within the room.

      "Hurry!" cried the leader of the gang, which numbered about fifteen; "something is up!"

      Roach, when, he left the room, noticed that there was a closet opposite to it in the hall, and that the door was standing open. He darted into this and closed the door a minute before the leader of the gang came up.

      The man tried the door of the room where his companions were confined.

      "Ben, open the door!" he cried as he tried the knob and found that the door had been locked.

      "We're locked in, Joe," answered the countess. "Break it down! That sleuth-hound, Phil Roach, has knocked Ben senseless and escaped."

      The door was broken down and the men entered the room. When the countess related all that occurred, the men became greatly excited. Some of them then went and searched the house, but could find no trace of Roach. The minute after the last man entered the room the detective slipped from the closet and made his way in a hurry to the street.

      He had not gone far when a cry of help was heard issuing from the hallway of a house at the end of the street. Although his arm pained him fearfully where he had been wounded, he did not wait to consider what might be the result, but rushed in the direction from which the cry came. He reached the house, but everything was now quiet. Undaunted, he took his pistol in his right hand and entered the hall. He heard a noise in the upper hall as if a struggle was going on and then he heard the smothered tones of a woman's voice.

      He hastily mounted the stairs and when he reached the upper landing he saw two rough-looking men trying to drag a young woman along the passage, while she was struggling with all her strength to free herself from their grasp.

      "Stop that!" cried Roach, as he dashed upon one of them and knocked him senseless.

      The other let go of the young woman and turned upon the detective. The detective dealt him a stinging blow on the temple, which made him fall to the floor as if he were dead.

      By this time the noise of the encounter had aroused the inhabitants of the house, who were coming down the stairs. Not wishing to encounter any one else, Phil Roach turned to the young woman and said:

      "I am a detective. Follow me and I will save you from any further assault."

      She obeyed, and they left the house together, before any of the people reached the scene of the encounter. The detective led the way until they reached Scotland Yard; where he ushered her into a private office. The young woman was well dressed, but her clothes were torn from the struggle through which she had passed a short time before.

      She was of an ordinary build, dark-complexioned, and had an air of refinement about her which told the detective that she did not belong to the class that the men did from whom he had rescued her.

      "Take a seat," said Phil after they had entered the office, "and when you get rested you can tell me all about yourself and what was the cause of this assault."

      The young woman took the proffered chair, and now for the first time she had a good look at the detective. Her eyes fell upon Roach's wounded arm and she instantly exclaimed, as she arose from the chair and went up to his side:

      "Oh, sir, you are wounded and your arm is bleeding. Can I do anything for you?"

      Up to this time the detective had not looked at the wound, and now that his attention was called to it he found that his sleeve and hand were covered with blood. He now said to the young woman:

      "I will go and have this dressed and will return in a few minutes. The wound is only a flesh one."

      He left the room, and in a short time returned with it bandaged and another suit of clothes on.

      "Now, if you will kindly tell me your name I will listen to what you have to say, then if I can do anything for you I will willingly aid you in anything which you may propose," said Phil as he seated himself at the desk and prepared to listen to the young woman's story.

      "I don't know how I can ever repay you for the service that you have rendered me," replied the young woman.

      "It was my duty," said Phil in an offhand manner.

      "Will you please tell me where I am?" asked the young woman.

      "You are at Scotland Yard."

      "Thanks. Now I will relate all about what happened to me this evening."

      "All right; I'm all attention," said Phil as he placed some paper before him and prepared to take notes of what she was going to say.

      "My name is Lady Jane Austen," continued the young woman, "and I reside at Croyden, the home of Sir William Rupel."

      "Do you know Sir William?" interrupted the detective.

      "Very intimately."

      "Were you at Croyden to-day?"

      "No; for the past three weeks I have been spending some time at my aunt's. This afternoon I received a note from the Countess de Bouillon asking me to come and take tea with her. I met the countess abroad last summer, and, having no other engagement, I thought that I would avail myself of this opportunity and renew the pleasant acquaintance that we had formed."

      "Who is this Countess de Bouillon?" queried Phil.

      Lady Jane told the detective all that she knew about the countess and then continued:

      "I called upon the countess and we spent a very pleasant time together, talking about old acquaintances and so on, until it grew quite late, when I said that I must go home. As it was quite late, the countess sent a servant to call a carriage to take me home. When the carriage arrived, I bade the countess good-by at the door and entered the vehicle. I had no sooner done so when I was grabbed by two men who were seated within, and gagged, so that I could not call for assistance. The door of the carriage was closed after I entered, the driver whipped up his horses and drove away at a furious gait. The conveyance never stopped until it reached the street in which the house was, where you found me. When the men were taking me out the gag became loose from my mouth and I was able to cry for help. These cries brought you to me, and you know what followed. The whole proceeding is strange and I cannot understand what these men wanted to abduct me for."

      Lady Jane stopped talking and looked at Phil, who had his head resting upon his hand and was thinking deeply.

      "I cannot understand the motive of these men," said the detective, "but you may rest assured that some plot is at the bottom of the whole affair. I will now call a carriage and see you safely home. To-morrow I will investigate the matter. Say nothing to any one about what happened to you."

      "I will act as you direct," said Lady Jane.

      The detective and her ladyship drove to the young lady's aunt. When they arrived at the house it was past midnight. As they entered the parlor the whole household was gathered together and greatly excited about Lady Jane's non-return. William Rupel and Mr. Hoffman were there also. After their walk they had returned home, and just as they were about to enter the house they were met at the door by one of Lady Cathcart's servants, who handed Mr. Hoffman a note.

      The curate read it and then said to William Rupel:

      "Will, this is a note from Lady Cathcart, in which she states that Lady Jane went to visit the Countess de Bouillon this afternoon and has not returned. They sent to the countess', but found that Lady Jane left there some hours ago. Lady Cathcart desires to see me immediately."

      "I'll go with you," answered William.

      The two then went to Lady Cathcart's, and had been there some time when the detective and Lady Jane arrived. Mr. Hoffman was engaged to Lady Jane, and when he heard of her disappearance he was almost frantic. When her ladyship entered the parlor and saw the curate, she rushed into his outstretched arms, threw her arm around his neck and kissed him several times.

      When those present had recovered their composure, the detective related all that he knew about what had happened, and then took his departure with Rupel and Mr. Hoffman.

      He left them, at their residence, after promising to call in the morning and talk with them more fully about the case in private.

      When he was going away, he muttered to himself:

      "There is a deep plot laid somewhere and by somebody that is unknown at present. I will find out what it is. I think that I am on the right track. The handkerchief in my pocket may prove to be an important clue to the unearthing of this mystery. The Countess de Bouillon — I will watch her, and perhaps she may have some connection with this. This may be a State affair."

      So saying, he went on his way and soon entered his own home.

      Early the next morning William Rupel received intelligence that the queen had signed his bill and that it was now a law. When he heard this he acted like a child, clapped his hands and cried for a long time.

      Mr. Hoffman could not understand the strange actions of his friend. If he had he would have pitied the great statesman, who felt like a criminal who had received a pardon and been saved from the gallows.

      The cares of office had so weighed upon William Rupel that his hair and whiskers had turned gray, and in appearance he looked like a man of sixty.

      The next morning Phil Roach visited William Rupel, but could gain nothing from him which would help in solving the mystery. Before leaving the statesman, he said:

      "You just stated, Sir William, that you were going to attend the reception that the Countess de Bouillon is going to give this evening. If you will permit me, I would like to attend you as your body-servant."

      "Why do you want to go?" asked Rupel. "You may rest assured that the countess had nothing to do with the affair of last night."

      "The countess may be all right and my suspicions may be wrong, but then I would like to attend this reception for several reasons."

      "If you desire it so much I will let you go as my valet."

      "Thanks; you shall not regret it."

      The detective bade the statesman good-by. He did not tell him what he had heard the beggar woman say, or anything about his row at The Customs.

      Early in the evening Phil was on hand to accompany Rupel to the countess' reception. He had so altered his appearance that when he entered the room the statesman did not recognize him.

      "Well, what do. you want?" asked William as he entered the sitting-room in answer to a message brought to him by the servant, which stated that a gentleman desired to see him.

      "I come to see ze statesman, ze great Sir William Rupel," answered the detective, convulsed with laughter to think that his disguise was so complete.

      "I am Sir William Rupel. Please state your business quickly, for I have only a few minutes to spare."

      "Ze business is of ze greatest importance."

      "Let me hear what it is."

      "Monsieur Philip Roach sent me to say zat I will take his place."

      "Why did the detective not come himself?"

      "Well, Sir William, he is here," said Roach, in his natural tone of voice.

      "Your disguise is perfect," said William Rupel in astonishment, "and I must say that if every one is not any more perceptive than I am, you will not be recognized."

      "I am glad that the disguise is good."

      "By what name shall I call you?"

      "Alphonse will do."

      When Mr. Hoffman came in he, too, failed to recognize the detective. When everything was ready the three started for the countess', and were among the first to arrive at the residence in Saville Row.

      The countess received them with great courtesy, and after she had been introduced to Mr. Hoffman she paid the curate the most marked attention. Lady Jane Austen and Lady Cathcart were both present, and to them Mr. Hoffman devoted the most of his time. The assemblage was a brilliant one, and the countess was attired in an elaborate and costly costume. Shortly after the detective arrived, Clarence Rupel was ushered into the drawing-room. He was accompanied by his valet, Fred Kissam, who was looking pale and haggard. The bullet from Roach's pistol had only wounded him slightly and he was enabled to use his arm without much inconvenience.

(To be continued)

AFTER attending to his master, Kissam went into the servant's hall, where the detective was talking with two or three other valets. Kissam came up to the group, and finally took part in the conversation. When he commenced to talk Roach looked at him closely, and as he scanned his features the detective murmured:

      "This man was with Ben Sherman last night. I'll watch him and find out for whom he is working."

      Finally an opportunity was offered Roach to engage Kissam in conversation, and he said:

      "Pardon, monsieur, I tinks zat we hab met before."

      "Perhaps so," replied Fred.

      "What iz your name?"

      "Fred Kissam."

      "Monsieur is the valet of Monsieur ——"

      "Clarence Rupel," broke in Kissam when the detective hesitated.

      "Clarence Rupel; vell, zat iz a strange coincidence. I am ze valet of Sir William Rupel."

      "Indeed! What is your name?" asked Fred, as the blood rushed into his pale face.

      "Alphonse Didet."

      "Let's shake," exclaimed Kissam, and at the same time he took the detective's hand and shook it. Then he said:

      "Well, Mr. Didet, I am glad to have met you. Perhaps some day I may be able to put you in a way of making considerable money, after we become better acquainted."

      "Monsieur iz too kind. If monsieur means what he says I vill be ready at any time to listen to anything zat monsieur may propose."

      "You will?" exclaimed Kissam. His eyes twinkled, and his naturally ugly face assumed a sardonic expression as he smiled.

      "Yes, monsieur," said the detective, and he became more confidential when he saw that he was drawing Kissam on to disclosing something. "I tell you in ze strictest confidence sometings, if you promise not to tell any ones."

      "I promise!" exclaimed Fred.

      "Will you swear?"

      "I will swear not to reveal anything that you may tell me."

      Kissam raised his hand and swore.

      "Now I know monsieur is in earnest."

      "Well, what is the secret?"

      "It is dis; I vould commit any crime if ze money be large."

      "Is that all?" queried Kissam, in astonishment; and then, before the detective could say anything further, the fellow said, with some excitement:

      "You're the man I'm looking for. Listen! If you promise to do everything that I tell you, I. will put you in the way of making a large sum of money."

      "How much money?"

      "One thousand pounds. How would that suit?"

      "Zat is a big lot." Then Roach pretended to be considering it, and he said: "I vill take ze £1,000 and do ze job."

      "All right. I'll tell you more about it later on in the evening."

      Kissam left the detective and went up-stairs: He was no sooner out of sight than Roach followed. He saw Fred stop in the hall and say something to a servant, who went into the parlor, and soon after returned with Clarence Rupel. When Clarence came out, Kissam beckoned to him, and then led the way to the conservatory, which was vacant at that time in the evening. The detective followed them unobserved, and hid behind a stand which was full of plants, and on the opposite side. of which Clarence Rupel and his valet stopped. It was so constructed that a person standing on one side of the stand could not see any one on the other side.

      "What do you want?" demanded Clarence, when they had come to a standstill.

      "I called you to tell you that I have been talking with Sir William's valet. He is an unscrupulous fellow, and will do anything for money."

      "Who is he?"

      "He's a Frenchman, and his name is Alphonse Didet."

      "Did you tell him anything?"

      "Nothing as yet."

      "Well, don't until you know him better. Don't make another blunder like that of last night. Lady Jane is here to-night, and that Hoffman is paying her the closest attention. She, Hoffman and William must be got out of the way. The countess was telling me to-night that Phil Roach was the one who rescued Lady Jane."

      "That darned detective must be got rid of by some means!" exclaimed Kissam. "I hate him!"

      Roach listened attentively to all that was being said, and when he heard Kissam say what he did, a broad grin passed over his face, and he thought:

      "They will have to catch me sleeping, if they want to do anything like that."

      "I just heard, Fred," said Clarence Rupel, after he and his valet had been silent for a few minutes, "that William is going to take a trip across the Channel. The countess told me that this would be a good opportunity for us to carry out our plans. She says that Ben cannot help us for some time, owing to the fact that he' will have to keep very close, and out of the reach of that sleuth-hound."

      "Did she say that she would continue to help us?"

      "Oh, yes; she will do anything that I desire her to do."

      "Has it gone as far as that?"

      "Yes. When I get the title, why then she will become Lady Rupel. You know I am helping her now."

      "Yes, I know that; but I would not trust her too much."

      "Don't worry about her. She is as deep in the mire as we are, and she knows full well how to keep a closed mouth."

      "I have a plan that I think will work," said Fred, after Rupel had stopped speaking.

      "What is it?"

      "When does Sir William sail?"

      "Day after to-morrow."

      "Well, then, by that time I will be able to find out about the trustworthiness of the valet, and if I find that we can trust him, I will propose that for the consideration of £1,000, which we will pay him in cash, that he devise some means of attacking Sir William."

      "That's a good idea," returned Clarence. "I leave it to you. I must return to the parlor, or they will miss me."

      So saying, he left Fred and went direct to the parlor, where he met the countess, and told her all that had taken place, and how nicely everything was working in their favor.

      Kissam left the conservatory to look for Sir William's valet. The detective was in the servants' hall when Fred entered, and he looked around as unconcerned as if he had not, just a few minutes before, overheard the conversation which made things clear to him that had been clouded in mystery up to this point.

      He greeted Kissam and then the scoundrel took his arm, and together they walked up and down the room. If Fred had known that it was Phil Roach to whom he was speaking, and whose arm he had locked with his, he would not have been half so confidential.

      "I'll do ze job, monsieur," said Roach, after Kissam had finished speaking; "I'll do ze job for ze £1,000."

      "Then I can trust you, Alphonse?"

      "Yes."

      "Meet me here to-morrow night at ten o'clock and we will talk this matter over."

      "I'll be here at ze appointed time."

      Phil Roach now shook hands with Kissam and went to attend to William Rupel, who had just sent for him. Mr. Hoffman did not leave with his friend, as he was going to see Lady Jane Austen and Lady Cathcart home. This left William Rupel and the detective the sole occupants of the carriage. After they had ridden some distance William said to the detective:

      "Were you satisfied with your visit?"

      "Perfectly."

      "Did you any information?"

      "A great deal."

      "Of what nature was it?"

      "It interests you greatly."

      "Me!"

      "Yes. There is a plot on foot to murder you."

      "Impossible," exclaimed the statesman.

      "Nevertheless, it is true."

      "Is the countess connected with it?"

      "Yes, she and your half-brother, Clarence, are in league together."

      "This can't be true. I have known the countess for some time, and she is one of the most upright women in the realm."

      "She is, eh? What do you know about this countess?"

      "I know that ——"

      "I know what you are going to say," broke in Phil, "the American heiress story, etc. This countess I have discovered is no countess at all."

      "What!"

      "No, she is not a countess, but she is the sister of a low rough and thief known as Ben Sherman. Her right name is Nell Sherman, and she is now your half-brother Clarence's mistress."

      "Are you sure of this?"

      "I am always ready to verify anything that I say. I gained the confidence of your half-brother's valet this evening, and for a large sum of money they have engaged me to murder you while you are crossing the Channel."

      "I know that neither Clarence nor his mother bear me any good-will, but then I did not think that they would attempt such a crime as that which you have just mentioned. What would you advise me to do?"

      "I will tell you better to-morrow, when I have discovered more fully what their plans are. I will visit the countess to-morrow evening. In the meantime keep perfectly quiet, and say nothing about what I have told you."

      "I will keep quiet," answered Rupel, as he descended from the carriage. The detective left the statesman and went home, after promising to call on him the next evening after his interview with the countess and the rest of the conspirators.

      William Rupel went to his room and sat down some time in a chair before the fire. His face assumed a troubled expression, and he murmured:

      "What have I ever done that I should merit such persecution? I have worked for my fellow-men, and have always acted honestly and upright. Oh, this is terrible!"

      He arose from his chair and commenced to pace furiously up and down the room: At last he halted before the secretaire, unlocked a drawer and took therefrom a bundle of papers.

      "Here is the evidence of the only crime that I ever committed. Was it really a crime?"

      He looked at the papers as he said this, and for some minutes he remained silent. Then he said, as if in answer to the question:

      "No, it was not a crime. But then the world will think me guilty. Oh, that I might have died before I reached the age of manhood!"

      He commenced to pace up and down the room again, all the time bewailing his fate. At last he stopped before the fire, and held the package of papers as if he were going to burn them. He drew his hand back hurriedly, and exclaimed:

      "No, I will not burn these. I'll keep them until after I have heard what Phil Roach has to say about the plans of my step-brother, Clarence, and the countess."

      He placed the papers in the drawer again, locked it, and then went to bed. To these papers had been added the account of Madge Babbington's death and burial, and if any one should ever find them William Rupel's guilt would be found out.

      In the library, which William had just left, there was a safe which contained a great deal of money, and a number of important State papers.

      The statesman had been asleep about an hour, when the door of the library was stealthily opened, and after a few moments' hesitation two men entered the room and locked the door after them.

      "Now," said the, first, who held a dark-lantern in his hand, "we will have to be quick. So far everything has been in our favor. I heard him say to-day to his friend, the minister chap, that he had just put three thousand pounds in his safe. Ah! there's the beauty," the man cried in a whisper, as he spied the safe. "As I was saying, I heard him, tell the minister chap, and I thought we might bag the swag."

      Is this the cove that you are to receive the two thousand pounds for ——?"

      "Yes."

      "Then why can't we do the job to-night?"

      *No, no; it will not be safe. We can wait."

      "All right, Ben, just as you say."

      The first thief was no other than Ben Sherman, the brother of the bogus countess. He took from his pocket a bag of tools, and after placing his lantern on the floor he commenced to drill the safe. His companion was not idle. He was rifling the secretaire; at last he came to the drawer that contained the confession. He took the papers in his hand and examined them.

      "Look, Ben!" he excitedly exclaimed, rushing to his companion's side. "Look at these. The other cove will pay a good sum of money for these."

      Ben Sherman took the papers, looked at them, and then placed them in his pocket, saying:

      "We haven't got any time to look at these now. Quick! hold the bag while I put the swag in."

      Ben Sherman had opened the safe now, and displayed to view the money and a large quantity of jewelry. Not touching the papers that the safe contained, they emptied the valuables into the bag, and then made good their escape. At the corner of the street they got into a taxicab which was waiting for them, and were driven towards the slums.

      Ben Sherman and his gang had deserted both the saloon and the place known as the "Crib," and were now safely lodged in an old rendezvous on the banks of the Thames, near one of the bridges across the world's famous river.

      The place had been formerly used: as a warehouse, but now it was closed up and only used by the gang. The countess had bought the property some years before, and they were thus free from molestation.

      The place was entered by a small iron door in the center of the building. On opening the door Sherman took his dark-lantern from his pocket and turned the rays in the direction they were going.

      Along a long and narrow passage they went for about one hundred feet, until they reached a. stairway leading down into the basement, They descended this, and then traversed another long passage until their progress was cut short by a brick. wall. To a casual observer it appeared as if there was no opening.

      Ben Sherman did not wait long, but, handing his bag to his companion, he went to the corner of the wall and rapped three times. In answer to his signal a door flew open and revealed to the gaze a narrow passage about ten feet long. At the end of this passage there was another brick wall, which had the same appearance as the first. Two raps were given here. These raps, were answered by one from the inside. Sherman now rapped three times, and then a voice from within demanded:

      "What traveler knocks at the gate for succor?"

      "A beggar in the guise of a friend," answered Ben Sherman.

      "Enter."

      A door was now opened and the men entered a small room, which was elaborately furnished. On one side of the room there was a handsomely carved sideboard, on which were displayed wines and choice fruits, The walls were hung with expensive paintings and were elaborately decorated, and the whole ensemble was that of an apartment owned by a person of wealth. Ben Sherman went up to the sideboard and filled two glasses with liquor, which he and his companion drank. He then placed his bag upon a center-table and said to the man who had admitted him:

      "What time is it, Joe?"

      "Six o'clock."

      "Has Nell arrived yet?"

      "No."

      "She promised to be here by six. It may be that the reception was not over until late."

      Just then there came a knock at the outer door. The general questioning was gone through, with, and the countess was admitted.

      "We were just wondering why you were not here," said her brother, as the countess took a seat on the lounge, and threw off the fur-lined coat which she wore.

      "I was detained," she said, as she untied her hat-strings.

      "I hope you were not followed again?" exclaimed Sherman, and a serious look came over his face.

      "No, I was not followed. I stopped some time after the reception was over, for a private talk with Clarence Rupel."

      "Oh — how are matters working?"

      "Well, he has promised that if we succeed in getting rid of Sir William, Rev. Frank Hoffman and Lady Jane Austen, that he will marry me. The stake is a large one, and I think that we ought to have it."

      "True, true," returned Ben Sherman, "the stake is large when one of the family keeps in a safe in his apartments such swag as that," and he pointed with a look of pride at the bag on the table.

      "What do you mean?" queried the countess, in some surprise.

      "I mean that bag of swag I took from Sir William's safe to-night."

      "Was he in the house?"

      "I don't know."

      "Why didn't you find out?"

      "Because I didn't wish to run any risk."

      "All right, Ben, we have struck a plan which, we think, will work well," said the countess after a short time.

      "What is it?"

      "Sir William Rupel's French valet is a fellow who will do anything for money. He has undertaken to tackle the statesman while he is crossing the Channel."

      "That's a good idea," returned Ben Sherman, "but I think that these papers will suggest a better one."

      He took the papers from his pocket and handed them to the countess. She read them through, and then said, after some minutes:

      "No; these papers will not be of much good. You see, they have been stolen, and if they were produced in a court of law, the question of forgery might arise. It will be better to get rid of him, and that will end the whole matter."

      "I see now the value of your advice."

      "But Ill tell you how we can use them. We can get Clarence to give us a good round sum of money for them. With these papers in my possession, I can now compel him to marry me."

      "Why don't you go for Sir William and marry him?" asked Ben Sherman.

      "Because Sir William would not marry me if I should threaten him. If I showed him these papers he would sooner bear exposure than do anything which would connect him with anything underhand. I know the man too well. I can lead Clarence and compel him to do as I say."

      "But is Sir William not a forger?"

      "Yes, but for all that he could not be made to do anything wrong now. I can well understand the motive which prompted him to do this. He no doubt considered that he was not doing anything wrong. In my mind, I think that he did perfectly right. But these things are neither here nor there. We Have agreed to go for the statesman and others, and we must do it!"

      "Just as you say, Nell."

      The countess and those present gathered around the table, while Ben commenced to divide the proceeds of that night's work.

      "Give me that diamond necklace," demanded the countess. "I will save it until I am Lady Rupel. You see by the inscription that it is very old, and has been worn by all the illustrious women in the family."

      After staying some time at the rendezvous, the party separated, and the countess returned to her residence in Saville Row, carrying with her the papers, which she intended to show to Clarence when he called that evening.

      Early the next evening, after the reception, Phil Roach presented himself at the countess' residence, and was ushered into a small room off the parlors, where the conference was to take place. His disguise was as complete as the night before, and he had no fear of being discovered by any of, those who were to be present. He was well armed, and if any trouble should arise he could protect himself. When he entered the room he found Fred Kissam and Clarence Rupel waiting to receive him. The countess had not come downstairs yet. She was dressing and had sent word that she would see them in a few minutes.

      She had not seen Clarence since the night before, and had not had the opportunity to tell him about the papers which were in her possession. After dressing herself she took the papers and placed them in her pocket, and then went downstairs to meet the men who were waiting for her.

      Clarence had been drinking heavily all that day. The liquor had made him nervous and excited. The countess' delay had made him mad, and when she entered the room she found him walking up and down and swearing at a furious rate. The detective and Kissam had tried to quiet him, but it was of no use. The more they tried to pacify him the wilder he became, so that when the countess came into the room he turned on her and demanded with an oath:

      "Why didn't you come sooner?"

      "Because I was dressing," she quickly replied.

      "You know that that is a lie."

      "Clarence Rupel!"

      "It is easy enough for you to say that you were detained because you were dressing. But who was that man that came out of your room a few minutes ago and left the house?"

      "No man. I ——"

      "You know there was a man with you."

      "I tell you ——"

      "There was. You say that you are true to me, but you lie."

      "Clarence, you are drunk and don't know what you are saying."

      "I am not."

      Rupel was furious with rage. The liquor had made him wild and he had no control over his temper.

      "I say that you are drunk and that ends it," exclaimed the countess, who was not greatly excited.

      "Say that again and I will choke you to death," cried Clarence, as he advanced toward the countess in a threatening manner.

      "I will say it again; you are drunk."

      Before the detective or Kissam could intercede, Clarence gave one bound forward and clutched the countess by the throat.

      The countess had expected that he would do this, and the minute he caught her by the throat she dug her finger-nails into his eyes. With a cry of pain and the fury of a madman, he threw her to the floor and then commenced a struggle, which it was impossible for either the detective or Kissam to stop, owing to the fact that both Clarence and the countess were locked in each other's grasp so tight, and were rolling from one end of the room to the other rapidly. The countess' dress was torn from her back. The papers in her pocket fell upon the floor. The experienced eye of the detective saw them, and he picked them up. The struggle continued. Once or twice Roach got hold of the contestants and tried to pull them apart. At last the countess succeeded in loosening Rupel's grasp, and in an instant she jumped to her feet. Rupel's face was streaming with blood. The countess ran toward the door, and Rupel followed, with a dagger in his hand, which at that moment he had drawn from his bosom. Phil Roach darted between him and the woman, and with a powerful stroke he knocked the dagger from the madman's hand. Clarence dodged the detective when he tried to grab him, and then darted toward the countess, who had succeeded in reaching the hall. The noise of the conflict had attracted the attention of the people who were passing, and now there was a large crowd in the hall, including two policemen and a number of reporters. Before any of them could offer any assistance, Clarence pulled a pistol, grabbed the countess by the arm, and fired.

      "You have killed me," she cried, and then fell to the floor. The spectators were horrified.

      "Stand back!" Clarence Rupel cried, as he made a dash toward the door. The crowd fell back, and he was about to make good his escape, when Phil Roach pounced upon him and threw him down. The murderer was on his feet again in a second. The detective caught him around the waist and threw him again, at the same time trying to put the nippers on his wrists. None of the crowd attempted to offer any assistance. They seemed to be riveted to the spot by the horror of the scene before them. Rupel rolled over on his side, threw Roach from him, and darted toward the door again. The crowd fell back. Just at that moment a man came rushing into the hall from the street. He had a pistol in his hand, and fired it direct at Rupel, who threw up his hands and fell at Ben Sherman's feet.

      "So perishes my sister's murderer!" he cried, as he walked quickly up to where the countess was lying, and knelt by her side.

      During the struggle, Phil Roach had lost his wig, and the papers had fallen from his pocket. One of the reporters had picked them up, and was now intent upon reading their contents. The detective spied the papers, and walking up to the man, he pulled them from his hand.

      "What right have you to read these?" he demanded.

      "I saw that there was a sensational inscription on them, and ——"

      "I know what you would say," broke in the detective.

      "Phil Roach!" exclaimed the reporter, as he looked more fully at the detective, and recognized the famous man of Scotland Yard.

      Ben Sherman heard the reporter, and looking up. he recognized the man who had hunted him so long. His pistol was still in his hand, and taking aim, he fired. The ball lodged in the detective's side. Notwithstanding the pain, Roach turned around and rushed toward Sherman, whom he determined to capture. So unexpected was the assault, that before Ben Sherman could realize what had happened, Roach had the nippers on him, and exclaimed:

      "I arrest you, in the queen's name!"

      And then he fainted away, owing to the loss of blood.

      The police had recovered by this time, and took Sherman in charge. The crowd was put out of the house, and a surgeon sent for to, attend to the detective. They took Sherman to Scotland Yard and locked him up to await further results.

(To be continued)

Early the next morning after the reception, William Rupel arose, dressed, and after having his breakfast, left the house, without going into the library. Rev. Frank Hoffman had stayed all night at Lady Cathcart's, and had told his friend that he would not be home until the morning of the day that the statesman was to sail for France.

      William was busy all day, being engaged in settling up some business affairs, and did not return home until late in the evening. When he entered his library he was greatly surprised to see what had occurred. He called up the servants and questioned them. No one had been in the library, and they were as ignorant as he was about he affair. He dismissed the servants and ordered them not to say anything about what had happened. He then closed the safe and determined to wait until the detective arrived, before he notified the police. He was so excited that he never thought of the papers that he had in the secretaire. He looked at this, and, seeing that all the drawers were closed, he supposed that the safe was the only thing that had been plundered.

      He sat down by the fire and prepared to wait until Phil Roach came. Twelve o'clock struck and still the statesman waited.

      "I can't imagine why he has not put in an appearance before this," murmured William, as he pulled out his watch and saw that it was three o'clock. "Perhaps he has got into trouble. If he don't come by seven o'clock, will go over to the countess' and see if he is there."

      Five o'clock came, but it did not bring Phil Roach. William was now greatly worried. He heard the newsman leave the morning papers. He went to the door, and brought them into the library. He picked up The Standard, and then leaned his back against the secretaire, held the paper out at full length, as he was in the habit of doing, and commenced to scan the page. His eyes rested on the first column, he started, turned pale, and trembled fearfully.

      "What is this?" he exclaimed. "Am I awake? No, this must be some hideous nightmare."

      He rubbed his eyes, pinched his arm to make sure that was not sleeping, and then looked at the paper again.

      "This is fearful," he cried, and then commenced to read aloud the heading of the column:

      William Rupel read the three-column report, which gave an accurate account of all that had occurred at the residence of the Countess de Bouillon, together with a history of his public life, and a synopsis of what the stolen papers contained.

      When he had finished reading he pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at the time.

      "Six o'clock," he said; "the train for Liverpool leaves at six-thirty. I must leave London, and make good my escape before the police arrive. I will not be arrested if I can help it. I will make my way to a foreign land, and there live in exile rather than suffer the disgrace of a trial."

      He went into his bedroom, hastily packed a few articles of clothing in a valise, put on his overcoat, and then started to leave the house. He opened the door, and looked up and down the street to ascertain if the coast were clear. No one was in sight; so without waiting any longer he descended the steps, and then walked hurriedly off in the direction of the depot.

      Rupel had hardly left the house when two men ascended the steps and rang the door-bell.

      "Is Sir William Rupel in?" asked one of the men when the servant came to the door.

      "Yes; but he is not up yet," answered the girl.

      "Will you be so kind as to tell him that two gentlemen want to see him on very important business?"

      "I will," answered the girl; "if you will step into the parlor and wait, I will go and call him."

      The men followed the girl into the parlor, and took seats by the hall door. The servant was gone about ten minutes when she returned and said:

      "Sir William is not in his room. He could not have gone to bed last night, for the bed is still made up. I have looked in the library, and cannot find him there."

      "Quick!" exclaimed the man who had done all the talking, "we must hurry back to Scotland Yard, and do all we can to prevent him from escaping."

      The men left the house and hurried off. William Rupel reached the depot just as the train was about to start, boarded it, and was steaming away from London before the detectives had left his house.

      He reached Liverpool in the afternoon, and bought an evening paper. He saw that the police were locking for him in every place. So far he had succeeded in evading those who had been stationed at the depot. He hurried to a private hotel, where he was not known, and engaged a room. He then proceeded to shave off his whiskers, When this was done, he took a bottle of hair-dye from his pocket and dyed his hair.

      When he finished disguising himself, he looked at the paper and found that a steamer was to sail that. evening for Spain. He then went to the wharf, engaged passage, and by eight o'clock that night he was breathing easily, while the steamer was steaming along at a fast rate to the country where he hoped to be free from arrest, and where he hoped to lead a quiet and peaceful life.

      After Phil Roach had been removed to a bedroom, he lay in an unconscious state for some hours after the bullet had been extracted from his side. The affair had been reported already at police headquarters and at Scotland Yard, and two detectives were sent to the house to take charge of things and to attend to Phil Roach until a nurse could be procured. They arrived about four o'clock in the morning, and just as the noted detective was gaining consciousness. When they entered the room, they found Roach trying to get up. They compelled him to lie down again, for they knew that he was too weak to do anything.

      "I must get up," said the detective, in reply to his two associates.

      "You can't; you're too weak," answered one of the men.

      "This case is an important one, and no time must be lost in communicating it to Sir William Rupel."

      "If there is anything that you want done, we can do it."

      Roach tried to get up again, but was compelled to give up the attempt. He then said to one of the men:

      "Look in my pocket and you will find a bundle of papers, which I placed there before I was shot. I want to see what they contain."

      The papers were handed to him, and, after he read a few pages, he excitedly exclaimed:

      "Now I understand why that reporter was so intent upon reading these." He then turned to the detectives: "Quick, my men, go and swear out a warrant. for Sir William Rupel's arrest for forgery. Hurry; the affair will be in the papers, and, unless you reach the statesman's house before it is daylight, he will escape."

      William Rupel did escape, as we know, and the whole force at Scotland Yard was baffled. All of London was in a fever-heat of excitement over the tragedy and the revelations that followed. Days passed, and no clue to William Rupel's whereabouts could be found.

      Ben Sherman was tried and sentenced to be hung. Fred Kissam had escaped, as well as the other members of the gang. The rendezvous on the banks of the Thames was seized and confiscated to the Crown, as well as all the other property belonging to the false Countess de Bouillon.

      Lady Anne Rupel was so crazed over the death of her son and the revelations which followed that she committed suicide by taking poison. Her remains were buried together with those of her son in the chapel at Croyden Abbey.

      For weeks Phil Roach was confined to his bed at the house in Saville Row. When the Rev. Frank Hoffman heard of the detective's illness, he and Lady Jane Austen visited Phil, and lavished upon him every attention. It was principally owing to their good nursing that the detective was able to get out as soon as he did.

      The Rupel property was placed in the hands of William Rupel's lawyers. They commenced to straighten up the affairs of the estate. When, finally, months had passed, and no news was heard of William Rupel, the lawyers concluded that their client must be dead, and so commenced to look around for the next of kin to whom the estates would belong.

      Roach fully recovered, and one day, while he was sitting in his office reading a newspaper, one of William Rupel's lawyers entered, and after he had taken a seat, he said:

      "I want to engage your services, Mr. Roach, in connection with the finding of the lawful heir of the Rupel estates."

      "Have you ever heard anything of your client?" asked the detective.

      "No."

      "Do you think that he is dead?"

      "I do. I think he must have committed suicide."

      "I don't," answered Phil Roach in a decided manner.

      "What then do you think has become of him?"

      "I think he is hiding in some foreign country."

      "What leads you to think so?"

      "I have not been idle all these months," replied the detective.

      "Have you been trying to find him?"

      "I have, and with some success. The government has offered a large reward for his arrest, and I am going to have it."

      "Have you no pity for William Rupel?"

      "I pity him, but then," answered the detective, "he has committed a crime, and if he were my own brother I would follow him to the ends of the world and capture him."

      The lawyer was silent for a long time, and then Roach said:

      "You ask me to try to find the heir to the estates. I have done so already, and when the time comes I will tell you who he or she is."

      The lawyer tried to get the detective to tell him something more, but Roach refused to say anything further in relation to his search.

      After his visitor had gone, Phil wrote a few letters, and after he had sealed the envelopes he said, as he arose from the desk:

      "Well, this search for William Rupel has been a long and tedious one, but at last I have succeeded in tracing" my man. It took me some time to trace him to Liverpool, but then I have now the satisfaction of knowing that it will not be many days before he will be back in England."

      Roach had worked diligently for months. For a long time he was baffled, but at last came across a farmer who had traveled in the same coach with William Rupel to Liverpool. The detective went to Liverpool, discovered the hotel where the statesman had stopped, and at last the steamer on which he had sailed.

      Roach next traced his man to Spain, and at last to Baden-Baden, where William Rupel, was now staying.

      In his search the detective had become complete master of the whole history of the Rupels, and in this way he discovered who the heir of the estates was, in the event of the death of Lady Anne and her son Clarence.

      That afternoon Roach took a steamer for France, and a few days afterwards he was in Baden-Baden.

      He found William Rupel stopping at a little farm-house outside of the city. The statesman still dyed his hair and shaved close. Most of his time since his arrival at the famous resort had been spent at the gaming table, at which he managed to make enough money to live upon in ease. Rupel was always restless and uneasy in his mind. Several times he had been prompted to return to England and surrender himself to the authorities. He was thinking of doing this when Roach arrived. The detective waited a few days before he made his presence known. At last, early one morning he walked out to the farmhouse and asked to see Count Lefevre. This was the name by which William Rupel was known at Baden-Baden.

      The detective was ushered into the statesman's apartment, and the minute he entered the door Rupel recognized him, and said:

      "Mr. Roach, I suppose you have come to arrest me?"

      "Yes, Sir William."

      "Don't call me that," cried the fugitive, "call me simply William Rupel. I will return with you to England."

      The man who had done so much for his countrymen now dropped into his chair, covered his face with his hands and commenced to cry like a little child.

      Roach was silent, and when Rupel ceased crying, he said:

      "We will start to-night for London."

      "I will go any time you say," replied William.

      In a few days London was in a state of excitement over the arrest of William Rupel. The papers again recounted the incidents of the tragedy, and contained long editorials upon the arrest and the coming trial. Party feeling ran very high — both in Parliament and out. William Rupel had thousands of friends and sympathizers, who were working in his favor. Rev. Frank Hoffman visited his friend in prison, as did also Lady Jane Austen.

      The day set for Rupel's trial arrived. The courtroom was jammed. The judges sat on the bench looking solemn and formidable.

      "Guilty or not guilty?" queried the judge, in a voice that was full of emotion.

      Eminent counsel had been engaged to defend the pris- oner, and they advised him to plead not guilty. William listened attentively to all they said, and then arose and stepped toward the bar. Every one in the courtroom was silent. At last in a firm voice Rupel said, as he looked at his judges:

      "I am guilty." A murmur of surprise came from his counsel and the spectators. Then they were quiet again as the former great statesman continued:

      "A few years ago the penalty for such a crime as mine was death; now it is imprisonment for life. There is no use trying to deny it; I have committed a crime and therefore must be punished according to the laws of my country. And the people of England little dreamed that when I worked so hard for the passage of the 'Forgery Bill' that I was working to save myself from death. God saw fit to expose my crime, and now I must bow to His decree and be punished."

      William Rupel took his seat behind the rail around the prisoners' box.

      His counsel now arose and protested against their client's plea, and tried to substitute that of not guilty. The judges were willing to entertain the plea of not guilty, but William Rupel was firm.

      No," he said, "I am guilty, and there is no use for me to add perjury on top of the crime."

      "Then we can do nothing for you," said his counsel. The judge arose and stepped to the side of his desk. His associates arose also, and with bowed heads waited for him to speak. His voice was so overcome with emotion that for some minutes he could hardly speak. He had been an intimate friend of William Rupel, and now it seemed terrible for him to pass sentence upon a man who had been so famous and done so much good. When he silence finally became monotonous, the judge said:

      "It gives me great pain to pass this sentence, but then it is my duty, and I must do it. William Rupel — I — now sentence — you to — prison — for — life — for — the — crime — of forgery!"

      A silence fell upon the court.

      The prisoner was removed, and the people departed. Every one expressed the deepest regret, and steps were immediately taken to try and have the prisoner pardoned.

      The greatest influence was brought to bear upon the queen, but she would not look into the case, and so William Rupel, the illegitimate son of Sir Robert Rupel, was compelled to go to Portland Jail, where at last accounts he was still confined, being engaged in keeping the books of the prison.

      After a time people stopped talking about the statesman, and his name soon passed from the minds of his countrymen.

      Rev. Frank Hoffman and Lady Jane Austen were sitting in Lady Cathcart's parlor the evening after William Rupel was removed to Portland, when a servant entered and announced Phil Roach, the detective.

      Mr. Hoffman greeted the detective very coolly, because he considered that Roach might have allowed his friend to live in peace at Baden-Baden.

      "Mr. Hoffman," said Phil, when he took a seat on the sofa opposite to Lady Jane and the curate, "no doubt you consider me cruel, but then if you will look at it the same as William Rupel does, you will see that I simply did my duty."

      "No doubt," answered the curate.

      "But we will let this rest. I have come here to tell you something that interests Lady Jane Austen."

      "What is it?" asked Mr. Hoffman, who now changed his demeanor somewhat toward the detective.

      "It is this," said Roach: "Lady Jane Austen is now the only heir to the Rupel estates. Clarence Rupel and Lady Anne knew of this, and this was the reason why they wanted to put Lady Jane out of the way."

      "How did you find this out?" asked Mr. Hoffman, in great surprise.

      "During my investigations I discovered that Lady Jane's great-grandmother was a Rupel, and then that there was no other legitimate heir to the estates but her."

      Mr. Hoffman and Lady Jane now thanked the detective, apologized for their conduct toward him, and promised him a handsome present.

      When Roach left Lady Cathcart's parlor, Mr. Hoffman turned to Lady Jane, and said, in a tremulous voice:

      "Jane, now that you have come into possession of such vast estates, it will be cruel for me to hold you to your. engagement. You are now one of the wealthiest women in England, and you should make a brilliant marriage."

      "Frank, you must not think of this," said Lady Jane, as she came up to Mr. Hoffman, and placed her arms around his neck. "Do you suppose that for all the wealth in England I would prove false to you?"

      The curate clasped her to his bosom, showered kisses upon her upturned lips, and murmured:

      "Jane, you are my own true love. How can I ever repay you for this sacrifice?"

      "By never mentioning it to me again," Lady Jane answered, as she rested her head upon her lover's shoulder.

      A month after this Rev. Frank Hoffman and Lady Jane Austen were made man and wife. They went abroad, and after visiting all the noted places on the continent they returned and took up their residence at Croyden Abbey.

      Soon after this Mr. Hoffman was made a bishop. He has never forgotten his friend William Rupel, and on visiting days either he or Lady Jane visit Portland and spend some time with the prisoner, for whose pardon they have been waiting for years without any sign of success.

      Phil Roach is still at Scotland Yard. Lady Jane and Mr. Hoffman kept their promise and gave him a large sum of money, with which he purchased a villa on the outskirts of London.

(The end)