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CHAPTER I.

NOTHING but the grave can banish from my mind the vivid recollection of the weird and extraordinary events — a chapter of my life's history — I am about to relate.

       At the period when this narrative opens, I was a plain, prosaic man, with an extensive practice as a solicitor; honest, too, I hope, notwithstanding what is said against that much-abused profession.

       December the 9th, 1882, was a day long remembered through the length and breadth of the land. For a fortnight previous the weather had been bitterly cold in London, the sky dull, and full of heavy vapour; while the air had that peculiar dark grayish tinge which precedes a downfall of snow; and at last, on the eighth, snow began to fall.

       Hour after hour it came, through the long night and short day, and each hour the east wind blew more fiercely, whirling the falling snowflakes in a mad dance, and rolling those already fallen into huge masses.

       Towards evening, however, the snowfall grew slighter, and when I left my office in St. Swithin's Lane, in order to proceed home, it had ceased altogether; but the City was enveloped in a fog of unusual density.

       I had completed a very hard day's work at the courts, and was anxious to get away to my bachelor abode in the suburbs, for I was tired, weary, and hungry.

       A long and tedious walk in the fog brought me to Waterloo Station; and, after being delayed for a considerable time, I alighted at Kew, where I resided.

       There the yellow fog was even thicker than in London; so dense, indeed, that the welcome light of the street lamps was totally obscured, and it was a matter of impossibility to

       Instinctively threading my way towards home, I experienced an unpleasant sensation in my eyes; but I took no heed.

       Mentally bemoaning my fate at living so far from the station, and being compelled to be out in such miserable weather, I groped my way onward through the deep snow and impenetrable fog.

       I felt cold and half-famished, and was anxious to get indoors to my bright fire, and the pleasant meal which I knew my sister Kate, who kept house, would have ready for me.

       My way lay across Kew Bridge, along the Richmond Road for some distance, skirting the gardens, then up Tintagel Road, a turning to the right, and my cottage was on the left-hand side, about halfway up.

       For the past ten years I had walked over the same ground twice daily; so I had no misgivings as to finding my way to my own house, but trudged along over the bridge and straight away towards Richmond, absorbed in thought.

       At last I turned the corner, and though the fog was to dense to allow me to see any of the objects around, I felt sure I was in Tintagel Road; so, walking slowly onward, I sought my own gate.

       In a few minutes I was outside the house.

       Thankful that I had at last accomplished the journey, I opened the little wicket, and proceeded along the gravel path which led to my cottage.

       Arrived at the door, I inserted my latch-key, but it would turn neither to the right nor to the left; therefore, I concluded I had not placed it properly in the keyhole. I withdrew it, and imagining that possibly some foreign matter had crept into the barrel of the key, tapped it sharply on the door-post, in order to dislodge the obstructing dust.

       This was all I did.

       I was just about to insert the key once more, when I heard Kate coming down-stairs, and waited for her to let me in.

       Suddenly, however, the door was thrown violently open, a hand grasped my shoulder, and I was dragged into a dark passage.

       Then a woman's arms were thrown about my neck, kisses were rained upon my head and face, while a voice cried, "At last — at last, my love! Harry, my own —–"

       The remainder of the sentence was lost in a shriek. The arms relaxed their hold upon my neck, and a body fell with a heavy thud upon the floor.

       At that moment, too, I heard a muttered oath, and then footsteps retreating along the passage — those of a man.

       For a moment I stood motionless, not knowing what might happen next.

       The place smelt damp and musty, unlike my own abode. Then suddenly it flashed across my mind that perhaps I had entered the wrong house.

       The awful intensity of the darkness unmanned me. A solitary ray of light from a street lamp, or a flicker from a dying ember of a fire, would have been sufficient to restore my courage; but I could not detect the slightest relief in the surrounding gloom. There was nothing but coal-like blackness around, above, beneath me.

       I bent down to the body that lay on the floor, and listened eagerly. My strained attention only caught the sound of heavy breathing and an occasional gasp. Matches I had none; and I was thinking about searching the house for that article, when I heard the woman on the floor move and groan.

       I bent down again, and felt something wet and warm. No light was required to tell me it was blood. Perhaps she had broken a blood-vessel; but no! my hand came into contact with the back of her head. There was a wound there! Yet what assistance could I render in that accursed darkness? At that moment the door was pushed gently open, and somebody entered.

       "A light!" I cried. "Quick! quick! This lady has fainted!"

       The stranger hurried past me into the house, and reappeared with a light.

       She was a well-dressed girl, rather slight, about middle height, with dark brown eyes, and hair of a lighter shade. She impressed me as being particularly graceful and handsome, though I noticed that she showed but little surprise at the discovery.

       The woman who lay upon the floor in a pool of blood was a tall, handsome lady, with dark hair tinged with gray, and a pair of sharp black eyes, which had not lost all their fire; but in spite of her flashing eyes, her expression was a tired and weary one. It was the face of a woman who had fought some sorrow, and won — but the scars remained.

WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF THE YOUNGER WOMAN, I CARRIED HER UP-STAIRS.

       With the assistance of the younger woman, I carried her up-stairs. Having studied surgery, I was able to dress and bandage her head, which soon afforded her relief. The wound was a terrible one; and as I washed it, I could not help thinking that it was impossible for it to have been inflicted by simply falling.

       Judging from its position, I felt certain that she had been dealt a blow with some blunt instrument whilst caressing me, and that had felled her to the ground. But who had inflicted the wound? The man whom I had heard retreating along the passage?

       The affair was so peculiar that I felt dazed. This was not my own house, yet where could I be? Who was this dark-looking woman who had behaved so strangely, and who was now lying unconscious on the bed?

       She must have heard the tapping on the door, and hurriedly opened it, mistaking me for somebody else. But for whom had I been mistaken? Whom could she have expected, and who was the "Harry" she had received with such strong expressions of endearment? No solution of the enigma presented itself; and at length I turned to leave, promising that I would call again on the following day.

       The younger lady accompanied me down-stairs, and, motioning me into a little sitting-room, said, "Tell me, sir, quickly, how it all happened? I left my mother sitting asleep by the fire! How did she get into the passage, and the — blood? Oh! tell me quickly how it all happened?"

       I looked curiously at this young girl, standing so erect, with flushed face, and demanding in such an imperative manner for an answer to her question.

       I hesitated whether it would be altogether wise to tell the whole story. I decided in the negative.

       "I am afraid I have lest my way in the fog," I answered. "I thought this was my own house, and placed my key in the lock, endeavouring to open the door. Your mother, hearing someone, came forward to open it a herself; but the shock of seeing a stranger probably caused her to faint and fall. I am exceedingly sorry that I should have been the cause of all this; but I felt certain this was my own house."

       She looked at me with her brown eyes wide open, as if she read the very working of my mind, yet with a certain reproach in them.

       Then she said, "That is untrue."

       "No; not untrue," I answered. "I have told you that I am belated. I live at Myrtle Cottage, Tintagel Road."

       "This is not Tintagel Road, but Kew Green," she replied, calmly enough. "But I would sooner hear the exact truth. That wound was never caused by a fall."

       I told her the whole story without reservation.

       She listened attentively, and when I had finished, she said, "Thank you; that sounds like the truth. Now I want you to make me a promise."

       "Certainly," I replied. "What is it?"

       "That you will never mention to anybody what you have seen and heard in this house to-night.

       I rather resented this demand; but there was something about the girl which brooked no refusal, so I promised.

       I took out my card-case, and handing her a card, I said, "You will at least let me know your name?"

       "My name is Maud Ellaby," she replied.

       And I turned and left.

       She called me back when I had gone half-way down the path, and said, in a softer voice, "Forgive me, Mr. Tremont, if I have offended you; but — but I hardly knew what I was saying. Good night!"

       As I walked along the path towards the gate, I became conscious of a most peculiar feeling of depression. Bracing myself up, I partially shook it off; but as I opened the wicket, I felt conscious that somebody was quite close to me — so close that I could feel their hot breath upon my face.

       The sensation was so strange that I paused, and looked around. Of course I could detect nothing in that impenetrable mist; yet it seemed to me that a man could effectually hide himself by receding a few yards. I waited some moments, trying to discern footsteps, but I could hear nothing save the clock of Kew Church striking the hour of eight,

       After another hasty glance around, I set my face in the direction of the Richmond Road, and walked rapidly along across the green.

       As I hastened upon my way, I became conscious that somebody was walking in the direction of myself; but about a hundred yards in the rear. Engrossed with my own thoughts, I did not pay much attention to the circumstance at first, but presently the measured tramp annoyed me.

       This continued for some time, and I could not help thinking whether the man behind me was the one who dealt the mysterious blow at Mrs. Ellaby, or whether he had any connection with the strange gust of hot air which passed over my face as I left her house. By the heavy footstep I was certain it was a man.

       I quickened my pace, so as to increase the distance between us; but, to my surprise, the man quickened his footsteps also.

       At last I turned the corner, and walking down Tintagel Road, recognised my own gate, and entered.

       When I had done so, I stood and listened. I could hear the footsteps advance, but a few yards from the house they ceased.

       I distinctly heard a curse muttered in an undertone, and then the heavy tramp of feet again commenced. But it receded, and shortly afterwards was out of hearing.

       Kate was awaiting me, rather cross, of course, that my dinner was spoilt. After I had appeased my appetite, which was desperate by this time, she wanted an explanation why I was so late. Had the trains been delayed on account of the fog, had my clients kept me, or had I been gossiping?

       I confess I was on the point of telling her my strange experience of the past couple of hours, but suddenly I remembered my promise to Maud, and replied, as calmly as I could, "Business has kept me, or I should have been home a couple of hours ago."

       "How did you find your way from the station?" she asked.

       "Oh, easily enough!" I said, lighting my after-dinner cigar.

       She was silent for a moment, but suddenly gave vent to an exclamation of combined horror and surprise.

       "Oh, George, whatever have you been doing? Look at your coat sleeve, and your waistcoat; why, you're covered in blood!"

       I started from my chair, and surveying myself, I replied, "Ah, my nose bled quite profusely this evening on my way from the station, but I was not aware it had got upon my clothes."

       "Take them off at once. The sight of blood! is so horrid!" said she, with a shudder.

       Poor Kate! she always had highly sensitive nerves.

       "I will," said I, going up-stairs to change my things as I was bid.

       When I descended to the dining-room again, the conversation turned into quite a different channel.

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CHAPTER II.

ON the evening following my adventure I was again on my way home from town. Having some important documents to look through en route, I selected an empty second-class carriage, not quite so well lighted as I could have wished for the purpose, but with the great advantage of enabling me to make notes uninterruptedly during my half an hour's journey.

       The signal had been given, and the train was moving slowly out of the terminus, when the door flew open, and a man scrambled in. A glance at the intruder showed he was about thirty-five, or perhaps forty; his clothes worn to shabbiness somehow indicated a vanished prosperity. He wore a loose overcoat that reached almost to his heels, and well thrust down upon his head was a broad-brimmed hat, from under which his eyes shone brightly; through a thick mass of tangled hair that hung in wild disorder about his face.

       Altogether, he was not a most desirable travelling companion, and, had not the train been on its way, I should have felt inclined to change into another carriage.

       Intent upon my papers, I had been reading for about ten minutes, when I glanced up suddenly, and found my fellow-traveller regarding me most intently with a strange look in his coal-black eyes, which glistened from under his hat-brim.

       I had no wish to be stared at in that manner, and at first thought of asking the intruder what he meant; but a more conciliatory course suggested itself.

       I moved to the opposite side of the carriage, and, disregarding his obnoxious presence, continued the study of my documents.

       At last the station lights at Kew flashed into the carriage, and thrusting my papers into my bag I alighted, and hurried away across the bridge homeward.

       The snow of the previous day had disappeared, and instead of the fog, which had caused me such perplexity, it was stormy. A cold, windy, blustering night. The tall trees bent their heads, the leafless branches crackled and groaned from the violence of the hurricane. Now the wind in dismal howls burst forth with a fierce and angry violence that seemed to threaten destruction to every object within its reach, and the broken branches of the trees that strewed the ground bore witness of its power.

       Following upon this struggle came a temporary lull, its giant's strength spent and exhausted, and its angry roar heard only in the far-off distance, as if pausing in its disastrous career to gather renewed strength from the fray.

       With my teeth firmly set, and my head bowed to meet the blast, I battled fiercely with the storm.

       As I crossed Kew Green, however, I heard footsteps behind me — the same heavy, measured tread I had heard on the previous night.

       I broke into a run; they did likewise.

       Suddenly I stopped; the steps also ceased.

       The person, whoever it might be, was evidently following me.

       I recommenced walking, and the steps sounded again; a trifle quicker this time.

       I was angry at being followed like this, and gradually slackened my pace, so as to allow my pursuer to overtake me.

       Nearer and nearer he came, until I could distinctly hear his heavy breathing; then, when he was within a few feet of me, I turned and faced him.

       He gazed at me for several seconds with a scrutiny whose intensity might have photographed the lineaments of my features on his mind for ever; then, with a leap almost like some animal, he disappeared in the darkness.

       It was my fellow-traveller.

       For several seconds I remained rooted to the spot. A sudden giddiness seized me, and I clung to the railings for support. Then, with all effort, I continued my journey, and at length, sick and faint, I arrived at my house.

       I felt certain that this man was the same that followed me on the previous night; but what puzzled me was whether it was he whom I had heard when Mrs. Ellaby was struck down.

       The weird, fierce expression of his face I could not forget, try as I would. His herculean stature and magnificent physique would have delighted the heart of an artist. Perhaps, before indulgence, exposure, and hardship had stamped themselves indelibly upon his countenance, the features might not have been so repulsive; but, on the night I saw him, the strange combination of agonized yearning, deceit, and ferocity was indeed so terrible, that even now, after the lapse of years, the mere recollection is sufficient to cause a cold shudder to run through my body.

       In point of fact, that encounter had a deeper effect upon me than would be imagined. A fright, however sudden and severe, soon loses its terror, and is cast into oblivion by lapse of time; but as the days passed, the effect of the shock I had experienced seemed to increase. Night and day that man's face hovered before my eyes, shaping itself into a thousand hideous contortions. He seemed to have acquired an influence over me which I could not shake off, and no measure that I adopted had the effect of dissipating the feeling.

       Never robust, yet lately I had become chiefly, I think, through the strange adventure on that foggy night, coupled with the discovery of the man ho followed me — self-conscious, weak, and irritable. I started at the slightest noise, and could not concentrate my mind upon my work.

       But, strange as it may appear, every night on my arrival at Kew Station I found that man awaiting me. He would allow me to get about forty yards in front, and then doggedly follow me as far as the corner of Tintagel Road. By day he haunted me in imagination, by night he haunted me in person.

       Upon quite a dozen occasions I had called at Mrs. Ellaby's house since that memorable foggy evening. To all outward appearances she was quite restored to health, so I felt that I had really no excuse for visiting her. But she always bade me welcome, and was exceedingly profuse in her thanks for what services I had rendered her. I spent many a pleasant hour with her daughter.

       To tell the truth, I should have been sorry if the acquaintance so strangely made had ceased. There was something about the elder woman and the general tone of the house that excited my curiosity, and I quite looked forward to elucidate the mystery.

       She certainly was the most remarkable woman I have ever met. She appeared to be in a chronic state of nervous tension, always on the alert, always anxiously expecting something or somebody, and never having those expectations realized. For an hour at a time she would sit erect, motionless and listening, always listening with an intensity which she did not attempt to conceal.

       No reference to the strange blow she had received on our first meeting had been made, and I was not quite certain whether she was conscious of all that had taken place.

       I discovered, too, that the relations between mother and daughter were far from friendly. Miss Ellaby was certainly not wanting in affection and respect, but it was evident that her mother disliked, even hated her, for she checked every sign of tenderness with stern harshness.

       Somehow, I could not help sympathizing with her daughter, for she had much to bear from this strange, dark woman, and allowed the many severe and cruel rebuffs without a murmur, though on many occasions a slight sigh would escape her.

       Mrs. Ellaby seemed an unfathomable mystery — she was an enigma.

       The first two months of the new year came and went; still the seedy individual in the long overcoat and broad-brimmed hat met me each night, and followed me home.

       At last I ceased to look upon the matter as anything serious; and became so used to his companionship, that I took little or no notice of him.

       It was peculiar that he took such an interest in me and my doings; but I thought probably he had business which took him to the railway station each evening just at the time my train arrived. He might be a nervous man, and glad of my companionship; or, lastly, he might not be quite sane, and this would account for him haunting me.

       Still, after all, it is not the pleasantest of things to have a man always following you with the assiduity of a Red Indian.

       It is needless to give an analysis of my feelings, or a history of my courtship; suffice it to say, that I loved Maud Ellaby, and the affection was reciprocal.

       I will pass quickly over the halcyon days — the dawn of our love — and hasten on to an event that occurred shortly after she had promised to be my wife.

       Business had called me to the north; and, returning some days sooner than I expected, I sought Mrs. Ellaby's, intending to give Maud a surprise.

       It was afternoon; and, when I arrived at the door, I found it open. I entered; and, creeping quietly down the passage to the door of the sitting-room, I peeped in. I saw something that transfixed me to the spot. Within a few yards of me stood that terrible man, with his arms round Maud's neck. He was kissing her, and stroking her hair tenderly and lovingly, at the same time uttering endearing words.

       For a time I could do nothing save peer through the slightly opened doorway. Words failed me. I could not even think.

       If Maud had shown signs of fear or distress, I should have rushed forward instantly to defend her; but her manner showed no alarm whatever. Alas! she seemed rather pleased than otherwise, and she gazed up into his face with a look of fervent love.

       Was this man who had taken such a remarkable interest in my doings, her lover? This thought filled me with an agony of apprehension; and I was just about to rush forward, when a change in their attitude arrested me.

       "And you are really sure you love me?" he said. "Somehow, I believe you are deceiving me; but if you are —–"

       "No, indeed I am not! I love you dearly; and nothing shall part us!" replied she.

       "And you do not love this fellow who is always dangling after you? Say yes or no," he commanded, rather fiercely.

       She hesitated a moment as if uncertain what answer she should give; then she looked up into his face, and replied, "No; I love only you."

       I could scarce believe my ears. Was I mad or dreaming? No; it was a painful reality, for there stood the woman who only a month before had sworn always to be true and faithful to me, renouncing her love!

       "But I heard you are to marry him," continued the man, doubtfully.

       "Ah, that was only hearsay," she replied, smiling. "Surely I can love you, even if I flirt with anyone else."

       "You must not — you shall not flirt! I love you, and you shall be mine alone; and as for this man who loves you, he must not see you again. Do you hear that? If he still hangs about you, I shall be tempted to do something desperate, and past experience has told you I am no coward, that I am afraid of no law. So if he wants to escape with his life, warn him not to come here again."

       He said this angrily, with his fist clenched, as if he would like to strike me.

       "How absurd!" cried Maud. "Have I not already told you I do not care for him in the least? He is nothing to me, except as a friend who does me the honour to admire me, perhaps love me, for the matter of that."

       "Ah, that is all very well," the man replied; "but you will not alter the fact that you were or are engaged to be married to him."

       "It is false."

       "No; true! Your mother told me," he retorted.

       She placed her arms round his neck, and kissed him, saying, "Do not get out of temper, dear; there is no need for it. Rest content that I love you better than anyone."

       "Do you swear that?" he asked, looking sharply at her.

       "Yes; I swear I will always love you," she replied.

       Then he hugged her tightly to his breast, and rained quick kisses upon her fair face.

       My proper course was to have entered and demanded an explanation; but I could not. Somehow that man filled me with such a strange fear and loathing that my only desire was to be away from him, anywhere, so that I was no longer in sight of those repulsive features.

       I was dazed, and could scarcely realize the truth.

       Never before had I known what it was to lose one upon whom my affections were set; but I then knew only too well.

       As they stood there clasped in one another's arms, the situation became unbearable. I could endure it no longer, so I noiselessly crept to the street-door, walked down the garden path, and across the green.

       Rapidly I strode along, anywhere my steps should lead — anything rather than solitude, so I turned towards London.

       The greater part of that night I roamed about the streets, thinking only of her broken promises, her false kisses, and her cruel treatment of one who worshipped her.

       I wandered hither and thither, not noticing and not caring where I went. I was mad with despair; and as I crossed London Bridge with the first streak of daylight, I felt half-inclined to cast myself into the stream beneath and rid myself of all my sorrows. As I stood leaning over the parapet watching the waters, it suddenly flashed through my mind that I should resent her treatment of me.

       Should I kill myself for the sake of one false woman, who was wrapped in a mystery that I had not yet solved?

       I decided in the negative. I would devote all my energy to elucidating the mystery of this man, and why he came between Maud and myself.

       Having made this resolve, I once more moved along towards the Surrey shore, and the first train that morning carried me back again to Kew.

(To be concluded in our next.)

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CHAPTER III.

ON the evening of the second day following the incident related in the foregoing chapter, I visited Maud as if I had just returned from my journey. She gave me a bright, happy greeting, and seemed delighted at my return, talking of our forthcoming marriage, and enthusiastically discussing the details of that impending event.

       As I sat that June evening in the summerhouse overlooking the lawn, listening to her professions of affection, I could not help feeling disgusted that I should have fallen in love with so very deceitful a woman. Only forty-eight hours before, I had heard her vow eternal love to another man; yet she received me as her future husband, and bestowed caresses upon me as if I were the only one she loved.

       I could hardly refrain from standing up before her, and charging her with fickleness; but I managed to calm myself, and sat listening to her, and watching the day fade into night and the stars shine out overhead.

       I had resolved to say nothing to her of my discovery, but visit her as usual, with the one object — that of solving the mystery of the man who had threatened to take my life.

       I could not question her; for if I had done so, I should have exposed my secret. Therefore I resolved to wait, for I felt that as the destiny of fate had aided me to discover her falseness, it would also help me in other ways.

       Several weeks passed, and almost every evening I spent with Maud. Mrs. Ellaby was more mysterious than ever. In point of fact, I seldom saw that extraordinary woman, and a fortnight often elapsed without the interchange of a single word.

       One night, in the early part of August, I left the house on Kew Green, and instead of returning home, I walked in the opposite direction. It had been a scorching hot day, and the night air being cool and refreshing. I thought I would take a stroll before turning in.

       My footsteps took me down to the riverside; and lighting a cigar, I commenced to walk along the towing-path towards Richmond.

       It was a delightful night. The sky was cloudless, the stars twinkled above, and, in the moonlight, old Father Thames looked almost fairy-like. All was quiet. The dark, shimmering river flowed silently on, and from the opposite bank the lights of Brentford quivered upon its bosom. It was a very peaceful night. I could hear no sound, save the distant shriek of a train, or, now and then, the rustle of the great trees under whose shadow I was walking.

       With head bent forward, and hands clasped behind my back, I paced along deep in thought, endeavouring to bring some light to bear upon the mystery, but could think of nothing.

       I was nearly half-way to Richmond when my meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind me upon the gravelled path.

       I turned sharply, and met the man whom Maud had sworn to love, face to face.

       He showed no surprise at my presence, and I stopped so close to me that I could feel his breath upon my face. I stood my ground, and met his gaze with an appearance, at any rate, of outward composure. All at once his eyes flashed with a cruel fire, and he raised his hands in the direction of my throat. I made no movement until I felt his bony fingers upon my neck. Then I struggled. But what was my puny strength against his?

       By the moonlight I could see that murder was in his eyes. Gradually the fingers of both hands extended, until they met around my throat; and then, by an almost imperceptible effort, he lessened the circle thus formed.

       I would not die without a struggle, and I grappled with him, tearing his clothing to shreds, and scratching his flesh with my finger-nails in the paroxysms of pain.

       But my efforts were as those of a child, and he forced me nearer and nearer the edge of the bank. Beads of perspiration trickled down my face, and my brain seemed on fire as I saw that his intent was to cast me into the river.

       The end was near, for I felt myself gradually growing weaker.

       Ah! the agony of those moments! Shall I ever forget it?

       I was conscious that I was being dragged towards the water's edge. I tried to call for help, but could not. I closed my eyes in resignation, then I felt a sharp push.

       I heard the splash, then a cold sensation seized me.

       I rose to the surface; saw him standing upon the steep bank above me, laughing in derision; then I sank and knew no more.

       ˙

       How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. When I opened my eyes, I found I was in a darkened room, with a sensation of acute, sickening pain in my head.

       I tried to remember the events of the past, but failed. Then, by degrees, the whole horrid drama presented itself to me. The sudden meeting with the mysterious man, our fight, and my drowning.

       The fatigue of remembrance was too much for me, and I suppose I fell asleep.

       When I awoke again, the room was still dark, though a ray of sunlight streamed through a crevice in the venetian blinds. Raising myself in bed, I looked around.

       The first object my eyes rested upon was Maud Ellaby. She was seated by my bedside, with an anxious, weary look upon her face. She leaned forward, and placed her cool hand upon my brow.

       "Maud, is that you? Where am I?"

       "Hush, dearest! You must not speak!" she answered. "You are in our house. You have been ill; but you will soon recover now."

       "How — how did they find me?" I asked.

       "A bargeman found you struggling in the river, and got you out just in time to save your life. I suppose you went for a walk down by the riverside after you left me, and fell in?"

       "Fell in!" I repeated. "No, I did not fall in; he tried to murder me!"

       Maud turned slightly pale. She thought me delirious, no doubt.

       "No, no; you are mistaken, dear! Go to sleep again, and you will be better. The doctor says you must be kept quiet."

       "But I tell you he did try to kill me!" I said.

       "Who?"

       "The man —–" I stopped suddenly in the middle of the sentence, for I remembered. I was about to say, "The man who is your lover," but it would be best to keep that secret to myself a little longer, perhaps.

       "What man?" asked she, astonished.

       "Ah! never mind, dear," I replied. "I will tell you all some day." And I sank back exhausted.

       For the next half-hour she sat silently by my side. How I came there, and why she who did not love me should nurse me in this manner, I tried to reason. Somehow I felt I was powerless, after all, to get at the bottom of the mystery which enshrouded that house — that she could give the only elucidation of it.

       From the moment that tall, gaunt man had crossed my path in the fog, my whole life had been darkened, as if by a shadow. He had blighted my hopes, shattered my health, and I was now hovering between life and death, he being the author of it all. He haunted me like an evil spirit, and even as I lay there I could see his hateful face before me. Until I knew who he was, I should know no rest.

       I turned over towards Maud, looked into her face, and took her hand in mine.

       "Maud," I said; "we are engaged to be married, are we not?"

       "Yes," she replied, evidently not understanding what I was about to say.

       "Well," I continued, "will you answer me one question truthfully?"

       "Yes, of course I will. What is it?"

       "Who was that man who kissed you, fondled you, said he loved you, and threatened to kill me if I saw you again?" I asked. "I watched you that afternoon, though you thought I was miles away. I saw it all. I heard you deny that you loved me, and swear that you only loved him. Tell me who he is."

       She turned deathly pale, and clutched at the chair for support. I was not mistaken. If it were not an intrigue, she would not show so much confusion.

       "Why — why did you see him? Surely you — you must be mistaken!" she gasped.

       "No; there is no mistake!" I cried, angrily. "You have never loved me! This brute of a fellow has all your affection! I heard you swear it was so. It was he — he who met me upon the river-path; and, after strangling me, threw me into the stream like a dog! He is an assassin, whoever he may be; so I —–"

       "Hush, for Heaven's sake! I — I have tried to keep it all a secret. It is a secret I have sworn to keep; but rather than you should think me false, I must break my oath. That man whom I told I loved is — is my brother, Henry Ellaby!"

       "Brother!" I ejaculated.

       "Yes. Take no notice of him, dearest. Don't hate me!"

       "Of course I do not love you the less for your brother's deeds; but why did you swear to love him, as you did?" I asked, in astonishment.

       "Because he's a lunatic!" she moaned. "You see," she continued, "I am his only sister, and he is very fond of me. He considers, poor fellow, that no man has a right to talk to me, much less to love me, except him, and he is jealous. I will tell you more some day. Have I explained the matter satisfactorily?"

       "Yes, of course you have, Maud. This has given me a new lease of life."

       She bent over and kissed me.

       "Then you must make haste and get strong, so that our marriage may soon take place," she replied, and left the room in order to get the medicine the doctor had sent.

       I lay quite still. I remember thinking over the extraordinary news I had just heard, and before Maud returned I had fallen asleep again.

---

CHAPTER IV.

MY illness was not protracted, for the excellency of Maud's nursing, combined with the perfectly contented state of my mind, caused me quickly to become convalescent, and a fortnight after my encounter with the madman I was able to resume my business.

       The grave thoughts of her unfaithfulness had vanished. I laughed at my own foolish jealousy, and with a light heart resumed my work, thinking only of the time when she would be my wife. I had several important legal matters in hand which claimed my attention, and for a month following my recovery I saw very little of her, being detained every night at my office. I was preparing brief for counsel in a most important claim, and as it was the best case that had ever come into my hands, I worked my hardest for my client.

       The case was heard, and having successfully established the claim, my client made me a present of a handsome sum over and above my fees, in recognition of the manner in which I had exerted myself on his behalf.

       The date of our marriage had already been arranged, and Maud was busy with the details pertaining to that ceremony. Upon the evening of the day on which I received the present from my client I went home jubilant, and after dining and performing my toilet, I walked to Kew Green in order to inform her of my good fortune. The money had come most opportunely, as it was sufficient to purchase a home and furnish it well.

       I walked up the garden path, and without ceremony entered the house, for the door was usually open during the hot summer evenings. Hearing voices in the drawing-room, I rapped lightly, and entered.

       My entrance was unobserved, and I stood motionless, taking in every detail of the strange scene.

       It was a pleasant, old-fashioned room, furnished in the style of the last century with its old china, bowls of dried rose-leaves, and curious Japanese monsters — a room which, for some reason or other, was seldom, if ever, opened, and smelt musty.

       A lamp burnt dimly upon the table, whilst upon the couch in the corner of the room lay a figure — the figure of my would-be murderer.

       Mrs. Ellaby was kneeling by his side, with her arms clasped round his neck.

       Maud was close to her mother, and, after I had watched some moments, I uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise.

       This caused them to turn round.

       Mrs. Ellaby cried out in affright, and Maud rushed forward, endeavouring to push me from the room.

       No sooner did the man become aware of my presence, than a look of intense hatred flashed from his eyes, and, with an inarticulate murmur, he struggled to rise. But Mrs. Ellaby tightened her grasp round his waist, and with soothing words strove to calm his anger.

       As he glared at me, his face suddenly assumed a horrified look; and, covering it with his hands, he cried, "Ah, a ghost — a ghost! Look! look! It has come to torment me! Save me — save me!"

       His hands dropped again; his face grew rigid; intense horror was depicted in every line of his countenance, for he believed that he saw the ghost of the man whom he had murdered.

       And, as he gazed at me fixedly, the fierce light faded from his eyes, and a convulsive shudder passed through him.

       Mrs. Ellaby bent down, and, in a voice of agonized entreaty, murmured, "Harry, Harry; say good-bye before you leave me!"

       But there was no reply, for he had already passed to that land which lies beyond the human ken.

       This event, of course, delayed our marriage; but a sadder one was to follow.

       Within a month after the son's death, the mother was also carried to the grave.
 

       Maud and I were married at Kew parish church and after a pleasant honeymoon in Devonshire, settled in one of those roomy red-brick Georgian houses which overlook the Botanical Gardens.

       We were happy at last, and though I often pondered over the mystery, I hesitated to inquire more closely into the details concerning her lunatic brother; for I knew his memory to be painful to her.

       In our garden one evening, however, she told me the whole of the sad story.

       The soft June air was heavy with the intoxicating perfume of countless roses, which vied in sweetness with the beds of mignonette, heliotrope, and clove carnations, and trees of magnolias trained against the time-honoured gray stone walls.

       We were sitting together under a great old cedar, the thick branches of which stood out in sharp and distinct relief against the sky, whilst others swept the ground.

       The sun had gone down; its last dying glow flashed from behind Richmond Hill, and glittered upon the bosom of the Thames, whilst the soft breeze just stirred the leaves overhead. All was peace, rest, happiness.

       It was then she completed the elucidation of the mystery which had so sorely puzzled me.

       Captain Charles Ellaby (Maud's father). after marrying, went to India. with his regiment, taking with him his wife and son.

       They remained there nine years, during which time Maud was born; but within a few months of her birth her father caught a fever and died. The widow and her two children returned to England, taking up their residence at Kew. Mrs. Ellaby had property of her own, and lived in seclusion, her only delight being the instruction of her children. Henry, the son, at length attained the age of eighteen, and growing beyond his mother's control, wished to go to college, being of a studious disposition. Accordingly he went, and after passing his examinations with honours, he decided he would take up medicine as a profession. For this purpose he commenced a course of study at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and from that time he gradually went to the bad. Medical students are exceptionally wild and fast young men, and Henry Ellaby was no exception. Besides taking to drink, he fell madly in love with a low-class singer, a worthless creature, who had been divorced. She professed she loved him, allowed him to make her presents, and at last consented to marry him.

       Upon the day previous to that fixed for the ceremony, however, she coolly informed him that she had already married, that she had merely been fooling him, and that she hated. him.

       High words ensued, and in the frenzy of passion he stabbed her, and then endeavoured to take his own life.

       The woman's wound was but a slight one, and soon healed; but he lay ill for weeks, and when he was discharged from the hospital he was a raving maniac.

       A few days later he was placed in the dock at Bow Street Police Court, charged with wandering insane, and sent to Colney Hatch Asylum.

       After six years' confinement he was released cured, but though to all outward appearances he was sane, yet his memory was a blank.

       One strange hallucination, however, remained.

       He was madly fond of his sister Maud, but hated Mrs. Ellaby. Women he detested, and would always avoid them, their very appearance being the signal for a volley of abuse. He always imagined he was being pursued by the police, and for that reason nothing would induce him to visit his mother's house until after dark.

       To humour him, Mrs. Ellaby arranged a signal — taps on the door — by which he could obtain admittance.

       On that foggy night I happened unwittingly to make use of that signal. Mrs. Ellaby, hearing the taps, naturally imagined that her son was seeking admittance, hence my strange reception. But her son was already in the house, having entered by the back door, and seeing me in his mother's arms, struck her down.

       She, poor woman, loved him with an intensity which his sad affliction only increased, and it was her fate to have that love spurned. and her devotion treated not only with indifference, but with intense hatred.

       His whole life was wrapped up in his sister, who, in order to humour him, professed to love nobody but himself; this, of course, accounting for the mysterious conversation I had heard.

       The madman's hatred for me was solely from the fact that I loved the sister whom he adored, for he imagined I would take her away from him, and thus destroy the one bright gleam of happiness in his shattered and wasted life.

       Four years have glided by since these strange and weird events took place, yet Maud and I are happy; and certainly I have never once regretted that I lost my way, and found a wife whilst in a fog.

THE END.