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      The name, and "Cyril Lawrence and Co., Diamond and Jewellery Merchants," is doubtless still within the recollection of many who were acquainted with the West-end about the year 1886. Many may also remember that Cyril Lawrence died very suddenly, twelve months after his retirement from business, and also the great sensation caused by the disappearance of a magnificent ruby, valued at twenty thousand pounds, which was known to have been in his possession up to the morning of his death.

      Few people, however, are aware that two years ago the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the stone was solved in a startling manner. The facts revealed by a wretched imbecile, and have since been fully confirmed.

      One morning in May, 1887, Cyril Lawrence was seated at the escritoire in his study in Kensington Palace-gardens. His forehead rested in the palms of his hands, and his elbows on his writing pad. He was thinking more deeply than perhaps he had ever thought before.

      At sixty-five years of age he was still unmarried. He did not possess a striking appearance, being of very short stature, very stout, and clean-shaven.

      His most treasured possession was an immense ruby — an exquisite stone of great size and value, the disposal of which, knowing, as he did, that he was likely to expire without a moment's warning, caused him untold perplexity. He might have one hour to live, or perhaps one year. Such was the opinion of the well-known heart specialist, Dr. Masterton Franklin. Valvular disease, or something akin, was the trouble. But Dr. Franklin secretly suspected something more mysterious. He was conscious that there existed symptoms strange to the disease. This suspicion gradually deepened until he became convinced that there were present all the evidences of a ventricular disease, with which as yet the medical profession was but meagrely acquainted. The thirst for knowledge burned so strong in his veins that his search in this direction was the cause of his undoing — aye, worse, that also of his daughter Sybil, a beautiful girl, the idol of her father, whose very existence appeared to be dependent on her happiness. But we must not anticipate.

      Cyril Lawrence had disposed of all his other earthly possessions in his will, but this one he had held over, unable to determine to whom such an enviable possession should belong. He was not going to bestow at random on some distant relative this priceless stone, which more than one crowned head of Europe had sought, but failed, to secure. Unable to control his agitation, he rose, and opening a tiny drawer, cunningly concealed in the heavy rosewood leg of the desk, he took thence a small velvet-lined box, and opening it, laid it on the writing-pad in front of him. There, as in a mossy cradle lay the ruby, its carmine depths fascinating the old man's gaze, which was one of troubled pleasure.

      Five minutes passed and still his eyes lingered fondly on the stone. He was lost in thought. Slowly he reached out and took the box in his left hand and lifted out the gem. But too late! For here the end came. A sudden spasm passed across his features, as if he were in agony. A convulsive twitch of the lips, a grey pallor succeeded the look of pain, the limbs relaxed, and Cyril Lawrence sank to the floor — dead.

      Dr. Franklin called a few hours later, and being on most intimate terms with Lawrence, he ran lightly up the stairs, tapped at the study door and walked in, to find his patient beyond human aid, in fact, cold.

      There was the usual consternation when the news spread, and it was only after the dead man had been removed that his servant and confidant bethought him of replacing in its case the ruby which he never doubted was somewhere on the desk in the study. He gently loosed the case from the dead man's fingers and returned to the study, where his alarm became unbounded upon failing to find any trace of the ruby. The police were immediately communicated with, but all efforts to find the stone failed. Dr. Franklin, who was first to enter the study, stated that he had not seen the ruby, although he had noticed the empty case in the dead man's grasp. Lawrence's servant, although minutely questioned, was beyond doubt ignorant of its whereabouts. It had vanished as absolutely as if it had melted into thin air.

      Lawrence was laid to rest in the family vault at E—— Cemetery, and yet another mystery was added to the long list of lost or stolen gems.

      At the time the foregoing incident occurred, Sibyl Franklin was receiving marked attention from a rising young architect, Stephen Oswald by name. He was a dark, foreign-looking man, decidedly handsome, and despite his Italian appearance as purely English as Sybil herself. He was rapidly advancing in profession, possessed most charming manners, was of good birth, and in fact had everything to recommend him, but the doctor disliked him. He did not forbid the acquaintance, but there was no mistaking his disapproval of anything beyond that, and told Stephen Oswald so, plainly.

      Often the doctor grew uneasy, as when, for instance, he observed the red colour suffuse the girl's face when Stephen's hand took hers, an evidence trifling enough perhaps, but disturbing to the peace of mind of the fond and jealous father.

      A year passed from the time Cyril Lawrence died, when one evening Sybil wandered into her father's library. The bright fire looked so tempting that soon her youthful form was stretched on the sheepskin rug in front of the blazing coals. In a few minutes her restless eyes ceased to follow the phantom shadows that leapt about the room, and became fixed on a bunch of keys hanging in the lock of a small Oriental cabinet that adorned one corner of the room. Out of pure curiosity she arose and turned the key in the lock and drew open the tiny drawer. Soon the keys disclosed the contents of all the drawers except one. The others had contained chiefly Eastern curios, finely carved tusks, delicately wrought gold ash-trays, and trinket boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The last one opened with a click, and she took out an old gold snuff-box. Opening it, she saw inside a big red stone. She returned to the fireplace, the stone now in the palm of her hand, and let the glow of the flames scintillate and dance upon it. A soft step sounded in the doorway, and her father walked in. On seeing the girl he held out his arms and kissed the soft curly head. But in an instant his manner changed, as, thrusting her away from him, he asked angrily, "What have you been doing here, child?"

      "Exploring," she answered in a conciliatory tone.

      "As I can see," glancing at the girl's outstretched hand. "Had you my permission?"

      "I have done no harm."

      "No harm," he echoed, harshly, "perhaps not — God only knows."

      At so unexpected an outburst of anger the sensitive girl turned away, and the doctor could see by the heave of her shoulders that she was crying. With one stride he was beside her, and took her again within his arms, forcing the wet face against his shoulder, and looking down tenderly upon the streaming eyes. "God forgive me," he murmured.

      Sibyl disengaged herself, and replacing the stone in its receptacle, and that in the drawer, turned the key and handed the bunch to her father. "Father, I am sorry," she said, then turned and left the room.

      The doctor sat down in a huge leather chair and frowned. "What if she suspects," he muttered, "or if she should actually find out." He covered his face with his hands and remained so for hours.

      Meanwhile Sibyl was locked in her room. There was a terrible thought dawning on her mind. Cyril Lawrence's ruby had never been found! Her father had been the first to find the man dead; the jewel box, in his cold hand — her father's recent anger — his frightened look — all these incidents crowded in upon her like a nightmare, and when morning came she had not closed her eyes.

      A week passed — one of sleepless nights and dread forebodings to Sibyl. She had grown strangely silent, moving about the house like a spectre, her features white and haggard. Once she had an opportunity to talk to her father, and on that occasion he gently but effectually silenced her. His refusal to allay the suspicions, which he must have known existed in her mind, was the completing thread of evidence needed to drown her hopes and confirm her worst fears. Even Stephen Oswald was unable to arouse or amuse her. A week of endless anxiety culminated in her resolving to leave her father's house. Her health, mental as well as physical, made a change of scene imperative. But, to her, a more important reason was that she was growing daily more nervous, and the chances of her secret being revealed by her in her sleep, or as she feared through delirium, increased every moment.

      Stephen Oswald called that evening, resolved to once more place his claim before Dr. Franklin. Sibyl received him in the drawing-room. He was alarmed at the paleness of her face. "Sybil, you look worse than ever this evening. In heaven's name, what is the matter?" he asked.

      "Nothing, really, Stephen. A few months change of air will do wonders for me."

      "I wish I could think so," he replied.

      An attempt of Sibyl's to smile ended in failure. Stephen was quick to notice it. His hand touched her arm. "Sibyl, will you not confide in me?"

      "Is there anything to confide?" she asked.

      "Yes, I am certain. Some worry is on your mind."

      "You fancy so, Stephen."

      "Instinctively I know I am right."

      "You mistake then!"

      "Has your father been again admonishing you to exercise your discriminating abilities at the expense of character?"

      "You misjudge father!"

      "But he did tell you I played too high at the tables."

      "And you do."

      "Well — once in a way, perhaps, Sibyl. But say — I must talk to him again to-night. I will compel him to sanction our engagement."

      "He is in a bad humour to-day."

      "Always is, lately. He will not improve presently."

      "Don't say anything unkind, Stephen! Promise me?"

      All depends, little girl, on ——"

      "His amiability? Promise me!"

      "Well — if he consents I — I ——"

      "Or if he doesn't, for my sake promise."

      "What would I not promise for your dear sake, Sibyl? But cheer up; I will not offer him choice of weapons just yet!"

      Sibyl heard the door of the study open, as Stephen entered her father's presence. Then she came and sat on the stairs and waited. A faint hope was in her mind. A far-away chance of an early honeymoon. "Honeymoon," she said aloud, and her lips parted in a smile at the incongruity.

      The sound of voices floated up from the study, as she heard the door open again.

      "You have my answer — now please go."

      "If I do, it is to expose your guilt to the world."

      A pause. Sibyl nearly slipped down the stairs in her fright, but just managed to catch hold of the oaken stair rail in time to save herself.

      "Which is it to be, Doctor, your daughter's hand, or — your honour?"

      "I refuse my sanction, you scoundrel. Now go, or I will ring for Evans to see you out of my house."

      A bell tinkled and a servant hurried along the passage. Stephen met him as he closed the door behind himself.

      "All right, Evans, I will see to the Doctor's orders, thank you."

      Sibyl was in the conservatory in a fainting condition when Stephen rejoined her. The cool air soon revived her.

      "I have failed again," he said, dejectedly. Then with a burst of boyish impetuosity, "Look here, Sibyl, I could almost ask you to elope."

      "Elope?" she echoed with a faint smile. "Are you so impatient?"

      "I would be patient if there were hope, but I see none. Good position, fair prospects, pedigree, all that sort of thing, but in your father's estimation 'undesirable.' Oh! hang it all. I'm sick of the whole thing."

      "But you have my love, Stephen."

      "A forbidden sweet, and which but serves to make the situation more tantalising."

      "You are unkind."

      "No, no, forgive me, but I want you entirely, my dearest, for my life's companion. Yes, I could almost run away with you."

      "And I — I could almost allow you to."

      "You are not serious, Sibyl."

      "Perfectly — honour bright."

      "Immediately?"

      "Why not? Life without you, Stephen, would be a dreary thing."

      "Your father would never forgive us."

      "I would risk everything. When he learns the true reason for our behaviour he may forgive."

      "This day week, then, Sibyl, my own?"

      "Yes, Stephen."

      He was gone. "I will keep him away for ever," murmured Sibyl, "for father's sake."

*       *       *       *      *

      There, resided in Derbyshire a widowed sister of Franklin's late wife, Mrs. Croft by name, who upon hearing of Sibyl's ill-health, wrote requesting that Sibyl would consider her (Mrs. Croft's) place entirely at her disposal for a few months. The doctor was anxious that Sibyl should avail herself of the opportunity of recruiting her health, and it was arranged that she should start immediately, which she did. Next day Dr. Franklin wrote to Mrs. Croft, making a proposal that Sibyl should remain with her for twelve months. An answer received by return post stated that she would reply definitely when the subject had been talked over with Sibyl upon that young lady's arrival. Dr. Franklin instantly telegraphed to know if Sibyl had not yet arrived. The answer came, "Has not yet arrived. Expected two days ago."

      "Is this God's chastening hand!" exclaimed the doctor, while beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead.

      Thirty minutes later every means of communication were in motion, and at last, inquiries at the steamship offices elicited the information that Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Oswald were passengers on board the steamer C——, bound for the Continent two days previously.

      Dr. Franklin, as he sat locked in his study that evening, swore he would never forgive. Brain fever set in, and for months he hovered between life and death. When at last he was convalescent, ten years seemed to have been added to his age. He never regained his normal health or activity, and was forced to relinquish his extensive practice. At the urgent appeal of Mrs. Croft, he went to reside in Derbyshire, where he lived the life of a recluse. Thus five years passed, during which Dr. Franklin changed sadly. He became bent and feeble, his footsteps were uncertain, his once bright keen eyes had lost their wonted sparkle and were now sullen and sunken. His head, covered with scanty, snow-white hair, shook as if palsy-stricken. He never even mentioned his daughter's name. She had never written, and Dr. Franklin was too proud to make inquiries, thus her whereabouts remained unknown.

      Great was Mrs. Croft's excitement one morning upon receiving a letter signed Sibyl Oswald. It stated that Stephen had died from malarial fever, on the Gold Coast, where he had occupied a position on Her Majesty's railways. She herself had only recovered from the same dread fever, to be now an invalid. For four years they had spent their annual leave in the South of France, not caring to return to England. The last wet season, however, killed Stephen, and Sibyl had now no means of support, and implored Mrs. Croft not to refuse her the shelter of her house for a few months until other arrangements were made. She requested that her father be kept ignorant of her return.

      Mrs. Croft concealed the news and made every preparation possible to ensure Sibyl's welcome and subsequent comfort.

      Sibyl arrived garbed in a full length overcoat and dark veil.

      Mrs. Croft gave the traveller a. warm embrace and endeavoured to suppress her alarm, which the great change she saw in Sibyl's face engendered.

      "How is father?"

      "Changed, Sibyl. He is broken-hearted."

      "God help him and forgive us both!"

      Mrs. Croft eyed the frail woman curiously as she removed the heavy coat.

      "You have changed also," said Mrs. Croft.

      "I suppose so, I have suffered much. Does father know?"

      "Not yet — how will you break the news to him?"

      "He will know!"

      "But he must!"

      "No — no, aunt. You do not understand."

      "He is certain to see you."

      "See me — how? While so many miles are between us?"

      "He has lived here these five years."

      Sibyl trembled in every limb.

      "Go to bed, now," continued Mrs. Croft, and she led Sibyl to her room. "I will bring you up some tea."

*       *       *       *      *

      "Who was that came up the drive a few minutes ago?" queried Dr. Franklin, when later on, Mrs. Croft rejoined him.

      "A friend of mine. Why?"

      "Do I know her?"

      "I think not." Dr. Franklin drew his hand wearily across his wrinkled forehead and relapsed into thought.

      Next day Mrs. Croft saw that Sibyl was in the last stages of rapid consumption. Her mother had been a victim of the same disease. She was unable to leave her bedroom, and slowly sinking, reached that point when it became a matter of mere days for the struggle to cease for ever.

      Sibyl agreed when Mrs. Croft insisted upon bringing in a doctor. His services, however, were not required.

      Dr. Franklin, on hearing that a medical man was being requisitioned, determined to see the patient himself. In Mrs. Croft's absence he sent word to the patient, by a maid, that the doctor was in waiting. Another minute and he was in his daughter's presence. He advanced to the bedside, and their eyes met in mutual recognition.

      The doctor stepped back, both his hands pressed to his head as if pain. "Sibyl!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. There was a momentary silence. Sibyl was too weak to speak.

      "Great God! My child is dying!"

      "Don't fret over that, father," said Sibyl, faintly. "It will be well when I am gone."

      "Where is your husband?"

      "Dead."

      "What — dead and you ——"

      "Dying, father." There was a perfect silence till Sibyl asked suddenly, "Where is the ruby?"

      "I destroyed it."

      "Father, you must have guessed why I went away?"

      "Yes — well partly — but don't let us talk of that cursed stone."

      "I must. It has killed me. Why did you steal it?"

      "I did so unawares."

      The frail woman's head lay back, white and still, on the pillows, and the eyes closed.

      "Stephen — threatened — to — expose — you."

      "No, no, child. He meant about the body. I secretly secured Lawrence's body post-mortem purposes, and Oswald found out."

      "Worse — still — God — only — can forgive — you."

      "Sibyl! In God's sight I swear I am innocent of the theft of the ruby."

      A faint smile played around the dying woman's lips.

      "For your safety — father — I — I went."

      She lay motionless now, exhausted.

      Dr. Franklin held a. wineglass half full of brandy to her pale lips.

      "Father — God — will — forgive." The words were scarcely audible. A tremor passed over the wasted form. Sibyl Oswald was no more.

      The doctor, only vaguely realising the change, continued excitedly:

      "I found the ruby! Do you hear? Lawrence had swallowed it. I took it from body — Merciful God! She is gone!" Frantically he seized her wrist and almost shouted in his anguish.

      "Sibyl — hear me! Tell me that you understand ——"

      Suddenly he released her wrist and crept rather than walked to the door. On the threshold he turned and faced the dead woman.

      "But I can prove it. Yes! Lawrence will tell you so himself. Lawrence — aye — here, man! Curse you! Why do you stand there and gape at me? Speak out and prove my innocence. Am I a thief? — No— Ha! Ha!"

      His eyes glowed like live coals. His fingers opened and closed convulsively. His lips were parted in a demoniacal laugh.

      Dr. Masterton Franklin was a hopeless madman. He was pacing up and down the room, laughing weirdly and whining like a whipped dog alternately, when Mrs. Croft found him in the presence of death, and led him gently away.