CHAPTER II.
THE FOREST OF FEAR.

       In the morning neither Captain Williams nor Morgan had returned, and their comrades resolved to go in search of them. After an early breakfast of fish, they walked up to the edge of the forest, and cutting themselves some heavy sticks from the bushes, found the first mark that Morgan had "blazed" on the palm tree, and began to make their way through the undergrowth.

       It was not difficult to trace the path of the missing men. They had marked a tree every twenty yards, and even if they had not done so it would have been easy to see where they had forced their way through the dense shrubs and creepers. They had, in fact, cut out a clean path, and it was wonderful how much strength and energy had been displayed by two men on the verge of starvation.

       At first the men saw nothing to attract their attention, unless indeed it was the absence of all bird and animal life and the extraordinary profusion of insects. But when they had penetrated to a distance of about 150 yards, the whole wood seemed suddenly to spring into animation.

       It is no exaggeration to say that there were spiders everywhere. Every leaf and frond trembled with their weight. The undergrowth rustled as they moved through it countless thousands. Hundreds scuttled away out of the path, and hundreds were trodden under foot. Their webs were woven from branch to brunch and twig to twig till the very air seemed full of light network and quivering blots of grey. And every where winged insects flew and struggled and died.

       It was a horrible and disgusting sight. Before the searchers had gone another 150 yards their clothes were, grey and shaggy with fine silken threads, and they had to brush insects from their hair and eyes. The spiders were of all sizes, some two or three inches in diameter, and some, scarcely bigger than the head of a pin. They appeared to be absolutely harmless. Hughes caught, a large one in his hand, and it struggled like a cat, till he dropped it on the ground and crushed it with his heel. But it did not bite him.

       Yet in spite of their harmlessness and their anxiety to escape, their very presence filled the men with so great a horror that Tredegar had the utmost difficulty in persuading his companions to continue the search. However, he drew so terrible a picture of the two missing men abandoned in that gruesome forest that the others were forced to proceed for very shame.

       In an hour's time they came to a spot where the trees were smaller and set farther apart. All the undergrowth had suddenly died away. In its place was a floor of hard earth and black rock. And still the spiders were everywhere. It was now possible to see for some distance in every direction, and yet, strange to say, it was at this point that the men lost the trail. They found the mark of Morgan's knife on a tall mahogany tree, and after that were unable to find a single other sign of anyone having passed that way. It is true that they could no longer glean any information from the undergrowth, and that the earth and rock beneath their feet was so hard that it would not receive any impression of a human foot. But it was strange that there was absolutely no further mark on the trees.

       They consulted together, and organised a definite plan of search. Tredegar remained by the mahogany tree, and the others went out in three different directions through the forest. It was agreed that Tredegar should be a kind of landmark by which the others could retrace their footsteps to the path, and that he should shout at intervals to give them some idea of his whereabouts. In less than five minutes all three had passed out of Tredegar's sight, but he could still hear them tapping the tree with their sticks.

       Every three minutes by his watch he gave a loud and long call, and three distinct answers came back from the forest. Then, after a lapse of twenty minutes, there came only two answers to his cry. He waited for three minutes more, then called again and again in quick succession, but still there were only two answers. Then he heard the sound of someone running in the distance. It was Dennis, and he came panting through the trees with a white face.

       "I've found summat, sir!" he cried. "Come along wi' me."

       Tredegar gave three sharp cries the pre-arranged signal for all to return, and then questioned Dennis as to what he had found.

       "The rifle," the man answered, huskily, "and blood. And there's summat else — God knows what it is — I can't tell you, sir; but it's more like a fishing net than anything."

       In a few minutes Hughes came running up. He had not seen or heard anything. But there was no sign of Winkles, and all three men kept, shouting for ten minutes; but still he did not come. Then they decided to go and look at the things Dennis had found, marking every fifth tree as they went, and to return afterwards and wait till the boy turned up.

       They were not long in reaching the place indicated by Dennis. A rifle lay on the ground, and close by it an empty cartridge. Tredegar opened the breech and took out another cartridge, also empty. The weapon had been fired twice, and they called to mind the two shots they had heard the night before. On the ground there were traces of blood and evidences of a struggle. The black rock was scratched, and the earth torn up into long ridges. A few yards away they found Morgan's knife. There was blood sticking to it, and some long yellowish hairs.

       Dennis picked up the rifle, and leading them farther into the forest, showed them a thing which might well set the brain of any man a-wondering. To all appearances it was a gigantic spider's web. It was fifty feet in diameter, and every strand of it was an inch in thickness.

       At the first glance, Tredegar's blood ran cold. Was it possible that a spider of such enormous proportions existed, and that Williams and Morgan had been overpowered by its stupendous strength? Then he examined it more carefully, and saw that each rope was composed of thousands of thin glutinous strands woven and twisted together, and that the whole design had been constructed by knotting the ropes into the required pattern. The structure was stretched horizontally between several trees, and had the appearance of a gigantic. hammock.

       "The work of a man!" Tredegar said, turning to his comrades.

       The others examined the thing, and nodded their heads.

       "Aye, sir," Dennis muttered. "No animal could make these knots. I should like to meet him." And he eyed the barrel of the rifle wistfully. They had no cartridges with them.

       "He must have been a strong fellow," Tredegar said. "The captain was no chicken — and he had a rifle, and Morgan could use a knife."

       They made their way back to the mahogany tree, and again galled out for Winkles, all three of them together, so that the sound might carry farther. But there was no reply, though they wailed there and continued to call until they were faint with hunger and the sun was low in the heavens.

       "We will return," Tredegar said, in a low voice. "It is a horrible thing to leave the boy here in the darkness. But perhaps he has struck the coast, and he has only to follow it till —–" he stopped suddenly. He remembered that they had argued in the same way about Captain Williams and Morgan, and that they had not returned.

       They retraced their steps in silence, finding the marks on the trees with difficulty, for it was getting rapidly dark. At last, however, they passed through all the horrors of that crawling and rustling forest, and came out on to the shore.

       They heaped up a pile of wood and lit it — they owed this much to Winkles, who would have insisted on its being done. Then they cooked some fish, ate a hearty supper in silence, and turned in for, the night. They had a rifle with them now, and were not afraid of anything, either man or beast. Tredegar slipped a cartridge into the breech, and laid it ready to his hand. It would go hard with anyone who attacked them in the night.

       In the morning Winkles had not returned, and they went once more into the forest to look for their three missing comrades. They took the rifle with them and searched all day, but found nothing except spiders. An acute sense of horror came over them, and a mad desire to get out of the accursed place. they were all agreed on one point — none of them would enter the forest unless the other two were with him.

       Yet even this precaution proved no safeguard. Before another twenty-four hours had passed. Dennis had disappeared. He went out one evening to fish on the far side of the lake, and never returned. He had taken the rifle with him, and it was found lying on a flat piece of rock. There was no sign of a struggle, and the cartridge was undischarged. But there were curious footprints in the sand, like blurred impressions of human hands and feet, and there was also a long trail, as though some heavy body had been dragged towards the forest.

       Tredegar and Hughes came to the conclusion that their unfortunate comrade was undoubtedly dead. They had not been more than two hundred yards away from him, and if he had been able to cry out they would have heard him. A great fear fell upon them, and so paralysed their minds that, they made no attempt at a rescue. They retired into their shelter, and kept, watch alternately until the dawn broke. And the dark circle of forest round their little bay seemed to each of them like the yawning jaws of some terrible monster waiting to swallow them up in its depths.

       But with the morning light their courage returned to them. Tredegar rose to his feet, and clenched his great hands as he looked at the forest, he asked nothing better than to meet this thing face to face and feel it in his grasp, and strangle it or beat out its brains on the trunk of some tree. Two hours after sunrise the two men entered the forest. Tredegar carried the rifle under his arm, and twenty cartridges in his pocket. Hughes cut himself a bludgeon of ironwood sufficiently heavy to break a man's legs or batter in his skull.

       They took a new route this time, and followed the trail they had seen upon the bench — the footprints and the marks of something being dragged along the ground. This trail led them into a more northerly direction than Captain Williams's path, and was an easy one to follow. The undergrowth was crushed and broken, and the prints of the animal's feet were plainly visible from time to time. Here and there the thick stem of a shrub was torn in half, and Hughes thought he could distinguish the mark of nails upon the bark. In one place they found a long shred of cloth upon a stout thorn, and recognised it as part of Williams's coat. As on their last journey, the spiders were everywhere, but they scarcely heeded them. Their minds were too intent on the matter they had in hand.

       For two hours they followed the trail, and observed by reference to the compass, which was fortunately in their possession, that the path was sweeping round in a circular route towards the west. Then the wood began to grow more open, and in a few minutes they caught sight of a "blaze" upon a tree, and found themselves upon their old track, close to the place where they had waited in vain for Winkles to return.

       They stood here a little while, and gave several calls in the hope of hearing some answering voice: but there was no reply. Then they decided to make their way to the strange wall they had discovered the day before. Tredegar held his rifle with both hands in order to raise it to his shoulder at a moment's notice.

       Before they had gone very far, Hughes grasped him by the arm and pointed into the heart of the wood. They both stopped, and saw in the distance the strands of the giant web like fine threads against a clear piece of sky. In their centre was a large, dark patch with four arms or legs, like the figure of a man clinging to a wall; and, as they looked, it seemed as though the limbs moved. Nearer the edge of the web were four other patches. but those were motionless. The sight reminded them horribly of a spider and four dead bluebottles. Tredegar raised the rifle quickly to his shoulder; but Hughes cried out, and struck up the barrel.

       "Wait, sir," he said hurriedly, "you don't know what it is yet."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER II. — (Continued.)

       "You are right," Tredegar replied, lowering the rifle. "We will get a little closer." And they crept from tree to tree as silently as they could. Before they had gone fifty yards, however, the object in the centre slid swiftly to the ground and disappeared among the trees. The others were motionless. Tredegar cursed bitterly and fired into a mass of undergrowth beyond the web. Then he put his hand into his pocket for another cartridge. The pocket was empty, and three of his fingers slid through a long tear in the cloth. It had probably been made by some thorn, and every single cartridge had dropped out. The two men went back several yards in the hope of finding at least one of the small metal tubes which meant so much to them, but they found nothing. Tredegar laughed as they retraced their steps.

       "It does not matter," he said, "in fact it is a fairer game. I only ask to get within arm's length of the creature."

       In a few minutes they came close to where the great web was strung up among the trees. The huddled objects hung motionless in the sunlight. One or them was considerably smaller than the others. They were undoubtedly human bodies. The backs were towards them, but the clothes were familiar. They rushed eagerly to the other side, and looked on the faces. They were the faces of Captain Williams, and Morgan, and Dennis, and the tiny Winkles. Their hands and feet were strapped close to the net with pieces of some stout and wiry creeper, and they were all four dead.

       Tredegar and Hughes unfastened the hands in silence and lifted the bodies reverently to the earth. All their necks were broken, and their heads hung limply between their shoulders. Round every throat were the long blue marks of fingers or claws.

 
CHAPTER III.
"THE BODY OF THIS DEATH."

       The two men looked at each other and Tredegar nodded his head in answer to the mute inquiry in Hughes's eyes. Then they took up the limp bodies one by one in their arms and carried them info the darkest part of the forest. When they reached the undergrowth they scraped four shallow graves in the soft, rotting mould, and stamping down the earth, covered the places with tangled masses of orchid and palm. Then they returned with a grim look in their faces. There was only one thought in their minds, only one hope — that they might find the creature and avenge the dead. All fear had vanished. They felt nothing of the silence, and the loneliness, and the unknown terror crouching in the depths of the forest, and waiting for their lives. They only saw that something had to be killed, and they were resolved to kill it.

       They made a complete, circuit of the open part of the forest, looking everywhere, and listening intently for any sound, but, they did not hear or see anything of what they sought. They made up their minds to spend the night in this place. They had with them some fish that they had dried in the sun. and a bottle of water. They made a meal off this frugal fare, and searched for a suitable place to keep their watch through the darkness.

       They selected the most open spot they could find, and piled up a huge heap of brushwood. There they stayed till the sun set, and as the darkness came swiftly over the heavens they once more began to realise the supernatural fear of the forest, a fear of things unseen and unknown, a lurking terror that watched them from the shadows. This was no physical fear, though they knew that the thing they sought would have them at a disadvantage, and that darkness would be all in its favour. They were both brave men, and one of them endowed with enormous bodily strength. They feared nothing that they could grasp and battle with. But they began to see how, after all that had happened, the very darkness itself would be their enemy. Yet they knew that the creature would only attack in the darkness, and it was their one chance to kill it.

       They lit their fire, and sitting back to back steadied every nerve to see and hear. The flames cast a wide circle of red light, giving a weird effect to the gnarled and stunted trees. In the gloom beyond Tredegar thought he could see the faces of his dead comrades, he placed his rifle across his knees, and kept watch with his hands on the barrel. It would at least be something to strike with, and Tredegar meant to strike hard. Hughes grasped his bludgeon tightly, and stared into the crackling flames.

       After three hours of this silent watch, Tredegar's eyes grew drowsy with sleep, and it required a great mental effort to keep them open, he began to realise the sufferings of the sentry who knows it is death to him to sleep. From time to time the two men spoke to each other. It was necessary lo keep themselves awake, and the sound of a human voice was cheerful in the great solitude. There was not a whisper in the depths of the forest, neither rustling of leaf, nor cry of bird. It was terrible to listen to such silence.

       Then Tredegar noticed that Hughes's back began to press more heavily against his own, and fearing that the latter was asleep, he turned round to shake him. As he did so he heard a faint scratching such as the claws of an animal would make on a rock. He rose sharply to his feet, and Hughes fell backwards. Twenty yards away something moved behind the shadow of a tree. Hughes jumped up with the startled eyes of one suddenly awakened from sleep, and stared wildly into the darkness. The fire was low and Tredegar flung a pile of brushwood on the red embers. But, he flung too much of it, and the dense smoke smothered the struggling flames, and only a shower of sparks illuminated the darkness, Then one brunch commenced to burn furiously, and Hughes sprang forward with an oath.

       A second later there was a terrific thud, and Tredegar heard the crack of wood, and saw Hughes's bludgeon fly into the air in two pieces, he rushed forward, and as he did so Hughes was flung backwards with so terrific a force that he twice turned head over heels on the ground. Tredegar saw something move before him, and swinging the rifle over his shoulder, he struck at it with all his gigantic strength. The barrel snapped and the stock went spinning into the forest, striking half a dozen trees before it fell to the ground. He rushed back to the fire, and kicked the smouldering brushwood till it burst into a clear flame. Then he went back to look at the thing he had struck. He expected to find it dead or maimed, for few living things could have stood up against such a blow. But he only found a livid scar across the dark trunk of a tree, and a dent two inches deep in the wood, and fragments of bark on the ground. But in the distance he still heard something move.

       He turned to Hughes who was lying, motionless on his back. He lifted the limp form off the ground into a sitting position, and looked into the face. It was white and drawn, and the blood trickled down one side of it from a gash in the forehead. Tredegar thrust his hand against the heart, but could discern no movement. Then he placed the blue steel barrel of the rifle against, the lips, and the surface did not dull. He examined the body closely and turned it over. The man's back was broken, and he was quite dead. Tredegar was alone on the island with a monster that had killed four men and a boy as easily as a child kills flies.

       He rose to his feet and stared at the dark ring of forest around him, while the whole horrible truth burst upon his brain. He was alone on the island. He muttered the word "alone" to himself, and tried to realise all it meant. All the silence, the solitude, the long, empty days, the sleepless nights, the years, crawling by one after another till his hair grew grey and his body was bent with age. The loss of all interest in life, the loss, perhaps, of reason, itself, or the power of human speech, till he became a mere animal, dragging out its bestial existence in the forest. All this he saw before him in the darkness. The fairest island in the world could hold all the torments of hell for a lonely man. But this loathsome spot, tenanted by foul spiders and by something else that would be a constant terror till it had been destroyed, had such inconceivable horrors of its own that the mind could not grasp Ilium. And then Myvanwy —– Tredegar could think no more. He fell on his knees and prayed that he might not think — prayed that he might die, that he might go mad, that he might do anything but think and realise his position. Then he cried out to heaven aloud, so that he might hear his own voice. The cry was answered by a savage howl in the distance.

       In a moment Tredegar's mood changed, and the cloud of darkness lifted from his brain. He rose to his feet and gripped the barrel of the broken rifle in his hand. Here at any rate, was something to be done — something to take his thoughts from his loneliness — something that needed strength and nerve and skill. Here was a tangible adversary to be hunted down, to be battled with, to be lured on to an attack, to be killed. The gigantic young Welshman had no fear of the result, he would let the creature track him down, and try to kill him as it had killed his comrades. It would find out its mistake too late. Every muscle of his body grew taut as a rope of steel. His face glowed in the firelight with the pride of strength. He grasped the branch of a tree near to him with one hand, and, tearing it from its socket, flung it on the fire with a laugh. He pictured himself tearing this unknown adversary limb from limb. He wondered why it did not come. It was not afraid of human beings, and did not know the welcome that awaited it.

       He threw some more brushwood on the fire, and kept a lonely vigil by the dead till the dawn flashed golden through the trees. Then he raised the body in his arms and carried it to the same place where they had buried the others the day before. He scraped out another shallow grave in the soft earth, and laid the dead man beside his comrades. Then he filled in the narrow trench and rose to his feet. His face was pale and hard, and something wet glistened on his cheekbone. This man had been nothing to him, merely a rough sailor whom chance had thrown across his path. Yet somehow his death had been different to the others, he had perhaps buried the last human being he would ever see.

       He covered the grave with flowers, and made his way back to their little encampment. Everything was in its place, just as it had been left the day before, he flung his tired body on the sand and longed for sleep. Yet it was impossible till he had made a safe place to sleep in. He roused himself to this task, and after he had eaten some fish, he went to the edge of the forest and began to break off boughs, varying from four to six inches in thickness. He carried these to the shelter, and spread them over the top of the canvas. Then he took large stones from the beach, and placed them on the top of the boughs. The smallest of these stones weighed at least a hundred pounds, and the whole formed a solid roof of masonry. Then he filled up the cracks between the three great boulders with wood, jammed in tightly, and strengthened on the outside by great heaps of stones. Then he turned his attention to the open side of the structure, and it was some time before he could think of a satisfactory door — something that would keep anything out, and he opened and shut from within. At last, however, he managed to drag a huge flat slab of rock against the opening. It left, a gap of about eighteen inches at the top, and it was just possible for him to squeeze through this. To fill up this gap he placed a heavy log of driftwood, so balanced that it could be easily dislodged. It could only be removed from the outside by pushing it into the interior, and the noise of its fall would be sufficient to wake the soundest sleeper.

       When he had finished this work to his satisfaction, he lay down on the sandy floor and went to sleep. He was worn out, and did not wake till it was dark. He struck a match, and looked, at his watch. It had stopped. He had forgotten to wind it during the excitement of the last thirty-six hours, he rose to his feet, and, removing the wooden barrier, looked out into the darkness. It was a starlight night, but he could see nothing except a dark mass of forest against the sky, and the reflection of a few stars in the water. It was the first night there had been no genial glow of firelight, and he realised how much this means to a lonely man. He wound up his watch, and the mere clicking of the wheels was a grateful sound. He lit a match and held it outside the opening. In the little circle of light he could see the grey spiders moving to and fro. He shuddered. Then he foraged for some dried fish, took a deep draught of water, and leant back against one of the boulders which formed the walls of his little fortress. In spite of the darkness he was wide awake. He would have been glad to have been able to sleep till daybreak, but he found it impossible to close his eyes. They were fixed on a narrow gap of sky that faced him, and he counted the stars that twinkled through the opening till they seemed like little flames dancing across the darkness.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER III. — (Continued.)

       Suddenly half of the stars vanished as though a cloud of smoke had been driven across them, and something darker than the sky moved in the opening. At the same time Tredegar heard the heavy breathing of some animal, and the scraping of something against the slab of stone. He laughed quietly to himself from the darkness of his corner, and leaning noiselessly forward gripped the log of wood and drew it slowly towards him across the sand. As he did so the form disappeared, the great slab of stone swung backwards, and then fell forward against the boulders with a crash. Tredegar laughed to himself. He had dragged that slab of stone forty yards, and this creature could barely shift it from its place. Then once more there was a dark, shadowy outline against the sky. Tredegar lifted the log of wood and poised it in the air. A second, later it went spinning forward, to the opening like a missile hurled from some ancient mangonel. But it turned over in its flight, and one end striking the roof; it crashed against the stone slab with such force that the whole structure trembled. There was a howl of rage or pain from the darkness, a blind scuffle, and the crashing of the stone slab as it swung backwards and forwards, in quick succession. Tredegar gripped the barrel of the rifle, which he had kept by his side, and waited. Then he struck a match with his left hand, and looked at the gap.

       There, peering above the stone was a horrible mass of yellow and matted hair, out of which glittered, a pair of malignant eyes. And stretched over the top a great hairy limb and long claws which grasped and scraped the stone, as though they would tear it to pieces. Then the match burned down to his fingers and they were in darkness; he sprang forward with a cry and clutched the limb. It was hard as steel and wrenched itself from his clasp, leaving a tuft of hair in his hand. Then he bore all his weight and strength against the slab of stone and hurled it to the ground. It fell with a heavy thud on the sand, and Tredegar moved cautiously out of the shelter, looking sharply right and left in case of a surprise. But nothing attacked him, and for a moment or two he could hear nothing but the tumultuous beating of his own heart. Then listening intently he heard soft footfalls in the distance, and shortly afterwards the snapping of twigs and rustling of branches in the forest. The creature had fled from him. Perhaps it had thought better of its intentions after it had felt the grip of Tredegar's hand. At any rate it had fled, and Tredegar bit his lip with vexation. He did not fear the contest. What he did fear was the continual terror of watching and waiting for his adversary, the sense of death lurking behind every tree and stone, and concealing itself in every shadow. He resolved to put the matter to an issue there and then. He guessed that this creature feared the light, and like other beasts of prey, preferred to prowl in the night time. All his comrades, except the boy, had been seized after dark, and it was probable that the boy had run right, into the creature's hiding-place. It was no use, therefore, to wait for the daylight. The thing probably had some secret lair, which he might never find. It was necessary to tempt it to an attack, and this would have to be done by night. He picked the rifle barrel from the floor and made his way across the sand to the forest.

       He noticed in the faint light that there was not a spider to be seen on the shore. Doubtless they had been disturbed and had fled back into the trees. He was glad that they had gone. It would not have been pleasant to walk over a thick carpet of their bodies.

       When he reached the trees he found the pathway which they had already cut through the forest and groped blindly along it in the darkness. So long as he kept to the path he moved ahead slowly and with steps that often stumbled as they caught some rut or stone, but directly he was confronted by a mass of thorny bushes, or net-work of creepers, or a trunk of a tree, he knew that he had left the track. It was laborious work. The gloom was intense, almost overwhelming in its oppressive blackness; The air was hot and scented with innumerable flowers and spices. Tredegar felt that he was buried under some gigantic pall, drenched with all the perfumes of Araby. Every now and then he stopped and listened, expecting to hear the snapping of a twig or the soft crunching of feet in the thick mould. He heard nothing but a long continuous rustle, so faint as to be almost imperceptible. He knew that it was the movement of millions of spiders. His face brushed against their webs. He could feel their tiny legs on his hands, and his clothes were covered with them. It was a loathsome journey, but there was that in his mind which forbade him to turn back. He only prayed that he might find what he sought as soon as possible. He kept every nerve and muscle on the alert, ready at any moment to strike or free himself from the grasp of an adversary.

       But it was not until he had reached the more open part of the forest that his prayer was answered. He had just emerged close to the place where the bodies of his comrades were buried when the end of the rifle barrel was seized and wrenched so violently that Tredegar would have fallen if he had not been prepared for such an emergency. He could see nothing, but shifting his hands further down the barrel to get a greater leverage he encountered a huge hairy paw and felt the cold touch of metal against his fingers. At the same time something jingled against the rifle barrel as they swayed to and fro in the darkness.

       Tredegar hesitated whether to let go and seize his adversary by the throat, but he thought the risk, too great. A steel rifle barrel is a nasty weapon, and he could not afford to lose it on the chance of getting a good and certain grip. He tugged and strained with all his strength, and flung his adversary to and fro in his efforts to shake him off. But the creature held on, and in its turn tried to throw Tredegar off his feet. At last they both stood still, and tried by slow pressure to force the barrel out of each other's hands.

       Then slowly, inch by inch, the rifle began to bend under the enormous strain till it was curved like a bow. Then suddenly it snapped and both reeled backwards. The next second Tredegar was flung to the ground with a groat pair of hairy claws at his throat.

       He had not been quick enough. Powerful though he was, it was evident that this creature had the advantage of him in activity. Man is one of the least active of all animals. It was possible, too, that the thing could see in the dark, and had him at a disadvantage.

       Tredegar gripped the limbs and by sheer strength bent them backwards till the fingers grew loose at his throat and the animal shrieked with pain. Then he swung the thing downwards to the ground, and still holding the limbs, tried to struggle to his feet. But the task was too much for him. When he had struggled to his knees, the creature managed to twist itself round with such force that it wrenched itself from his grasp. He rose in a flash to his feet, but before he could get another hold it went crashing through the forest in flight. But it had left something in Tredegar's hand — something semi-circular and hard and cold like half of a metal disc, Tredegar thrust it into his pocket and started off in pursuit. He was determined to finish the contest that night. His blood was up and he knew he could do himself justice. He was only afraid that the creature would seek to avoid him now that, it knew what sort of a man it had to deal with.

       The chase was hopeless from the first. Tredegar, even if he had been as active as his opponent, could scarcely have followed him in the dark at an equal pace. He was only guided by sound, and from time to time he had to stop and listen. Every minute the, swish of boughs and rustle of leaves grew fainter and fainter in the distance. He was bruised from head to foot and bleeding from a hundred scratches. Every now and then he came crashing down on to his hands as his foot caught in some rut or creeper. At last the trees began to thin and diminish in size and the stars began to shine through their branches, and he heard the distant sound, of the sea. In five minutes' time he staggered out on to the edge of the cliffs, and felt the cold night air blowing from, the ocean.

       Beneath him the heavy Pacific surge thundered on the rocks and even where he stood, some sixty feet above it, the salt spray beat against his face. Far away on the horizon a thin bar of grey showed the coming of the dawn.

       He sat down a few yards from the edge and rested his face in his hands. All the lust of blood and the heat of contest had died away. He only, saw the great loneliness. The very voice of the sea seemed to whisper the word "Alone." The faint rustle of the breeze in the stunted trees behind him seemed to echo it. He was alone — alone! And once more through the darkness he saw the slate cliffs of Cardiganshire, and the foam running up their sides, and the little village straggling by the sea, and the ring of purple mountains towering peak after peak into the distance. And once more he saw the face of Myvanwy — white, tired with waiting, yet patient with love. And once more he heard her voice, and she whispered the word "Alone." He clenched his hands in agony. He could not endure these thoughts, and for one moment the brink of the cliff seemed dangerously near to him. It was but a step or two and then —– No, he was no coward to shirk what lay before him! he would wait. One year, two years, three perchace, and then — the ship, the stray vessel driven out of its course, the signal on the heights, flag or fire, the boat sweeping towards him across the sea. The sight of a human face, the touch of a human hand, the sound of a human voice. It was worth waiting for. Yet it might never come. There might be no dawn in the awful night that loomed before him.

       As if in answer to his thoughts, the grey bar on the horizon lightened into pale yellow, and then into a brilliant gold; and then the whole eastern sky glowed with azure and rose, and the sea itself was a lake of rippling fire. He rose to his feet, and his rough face seemed to drink in the light, as a thirsty man drinks in water.

       As the sun crept up from the sea he saw that he was on a part of the coast, he had never visited before. The trees ran almost to the edge of the cliffs. He took the compass from his pocket and saw that he was almost exactly on the opposite side of the island to the little encampment. He resolved to explore the coast before returning to the creek, and knowing that the shore must eventually lead him to his destination, he started to walk, along the cliffs.

       Before he had gone very far he chanced to thrust his hands into his pockets, and his fingers encountered the metal disc he had wrenched off in the contest of the night before. He examined it carefully, and saw that it was made of some yellow metal, perhaps gold, and had evidently been fastened to something else by a short piece of chain, which was still attached to it. Only half of the gold disc remained. It had evidently been broken off, for the edges were jagged and uneven. At the first glance Tredegar concluded that the other half had been torn off in the struggle; but a more careful inspection of the edge showed, that it was dull and worn, and that the fracture was of long standing. The disc was covered with strange lettering, which was absolutely unintelligible to Tredegar. It seemed, however, that he recognised some of the letters. The whole disc must have been over 3 inches across, and an eighth of an inch in thickness.

       He turned it over and over in his hand, but could make nothing of it. But the horrible suspicion crossed his mind that the creature that sought his life and which had taken the lives of his comrades was or had been a human being. No animal, he reasoned, would have such a thing fastened to its limbs, unless indeed it had been placed there by human beings. But he could surmise no more than this from the dull yellow surface.

       He replaced it in his pocket and continued his walk along the coast. After he had gone about a mile the cliffs began to rise higher and higher from the shore beneath, till their summits were 300 feet above the sea. Then they were suddenly split by a ravine. At first Tredegar thought he had reached the narrow channel by which they had originally landed on the island. But when he reached the edge he saw that this was not the case. Far below him the sea beat with great fury on an evil-looking reef, and sluiced backwards and forwards between piles of jagged rock. Behind the reef lay a little pool of smooth water that rippled gently on a sandy beach. The whole ravine was in the form of a wedge, and its apex was not more than 300 yards from the water. Its sides dropped sheer down to a floor of soft, white sand, piled up in long ridges and dunes and dotted here and there with clumps of straggling shrub and thin, wiry grass. Some twenty yards from the edge of the water the sand rose in a great hillock, and something dark jutted out from one of the sides. Tredegar's curiosity was roused. It looked remarkably like a wreck buried in tho sand. He walked along the edge of the precipice to the extreme point, where a narrow bank of shale sloped down steeply, to a huge heap of boulders that had been broken off from the rocky walls, and heaped up to a height of more than one hundred feet. A little stream trickled down the slope and poured a tiny cascade of water over the edge of a large rock.

       He descended with considerable difficulty to the beach, and ploughed his way ankle-deep through the dry, silvery sand to the strangely-shaped hillock by the water. And as he went he saw that which quickened his pulse, and made, him glance swiftly round the rocky sides of the gorge.

       Parallel with his own path were innumerable deep dents in the sand. They bore no resemblance to the impression of a foot, for they were merely little funnel-shaped holes. But Tredegar looked, back at his own tracks, and saw that his own feet left similar marks in the shifting yielding sand. His heart beat high with hope.

       "At last," he said to himself. "I have tracked this horror to its lair, and it shall not leave the gorge alive!"

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER III. — (Continued.)

       But he was doomed to disappointment. He was, however, right in supposing that the hillock of sand marked the grave of a vessel. As he drew near to it he saw torn beams and shattered spars sticking out from the sides, and these were white as the sand itself, bleached by the suns of centuries. For at the first glance he could see that this was no modern ship, but an old galleon. Little remained of it but the high poop and a few bare ribs of oak. The black patch he had seen from the top of the cliff had not been timber, but the entrance to a cabin. The doorway was gone, and only a dark cavity remained. The floor was covered deeply with sand, and Tredegar saw that this had been shifted and trodden down by something.

       He paused at the entrance, with clenched fists and his legs a little apart to give him a firm standing. Then he picked up a stone and flung it hard into the darkness. The stone struck wood, and rattled from wall to wall, but nothing stirred within, and there was no sound but the splashing of the waters on the shore. He drew nearer, and, lighting a match, peered cautiously into the interior. At first he could see nothing. After the brilliant sunshine outside the light of the match was no more than darkness. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the cabin was empty. He lit another match, and examined the inside. It was a room about twelve feet square, with a low ceiling. The timbers were rudely ornamented and a coat of arms with a Spanish motto was carved on one of the beams. Tredegar recognised the arms of Castille in one of the quarterings. In one corner the sand was piled nearly to the ceiling, and it bore the impress of a body. A heavy oaken door with broken hinges lay half-buried on the floor.

       He lit several more matches and examined every inch of the woodwork carefully in the hope of finding some clue to the name of the vessel. But he found none. Then a sudden idea struck him. Here was the very place for him to live. A snug shelter from sun and rain; and with the door repaired and fixed, an almost impregnable fortress, where he could sleep in security.

       He came out into the air and glanced at the line of rocks with the foam swirling round their bases. He was thinking of the boat, and how he could bring it upon the beach. To his joy he noticed a narrow channel on one side, close to the cliffs. It was no more than fifteen feet wide, and the water sluiced through it like a mill race. It was possible that there were sunken rocks beneath. But still it was an opening, and a pair of strong arms might guide a boat through it.

       He returned along the cliffs to the encampment, launched the boat, placed everything in it, and rowed round the coast till he reached the ravine. Only a man of his great strength would have attempted to guide an eighteen-foot boat, through that narrow swirling channel. And he failed in his task. The boat ran on a sunken rock and stuck there quivering like, a butterfly impaled on a pin. He leapt over the side into the shallow rushing water, and by superhuman efforts managed to transfer everything to the shore. But his last chance of escape was gone. With no tools it would he impossible to repair the boat, even if he could save it from its present position. But in less than two hours it was broken to pieces.

       Then he set to work to fix up the door of the cabin, and the sun was low in the heavens before he had accomplished the job to his satisfaction. After that he commenced to clear out the sand from the interior. He had lit a fire at the entrance behind a wall of sand, and the red light, glowed through the doorway on the oaken walls. It was a laborious task, but he threw the sand out in great handfuls and scooped it away until it lay about a fool deep on the floor. He left this as a couch to sleep on.

       Just as he had completed the job his eye was caught by several marks on a beam which he had just uncovered. He could not distinguish them in the firelight, but they appeared to be letters. He had some smattering of Spanish, and striking a match he stooped down and examined them, moving the match along from letter to letter till he had spelt out the whole sentence. Then he looked behind him in terror, as though he expected to see something. For the words were in English, and had apparently not been cut more than a few years, and they were, words that struck fear into his Heart and throw a terrible light on the years that lay before him.

       And yet they were but a short quotation from the New Testament — "Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?"

       He rose, to his feet and staggered out into the open. The sky was roofed with tossing flame, and the land bathed in liquid gold. There was no sound but the roar of the sea on the rocks. The black cliffs towered up around him like the walls of a dungeon. It seemed for a moment as though he were chained down in the lowest depths of hell. The living death was written over the heavens and the sea and the sky and the very silence spoke of it.

       He fell on his knees and prayed. "Oh, wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death."

 
CHAPTER IV.
THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS.

       The little village of Garth lies on the shores of Cardigan Bay. It has but a single street of small white houses extending for nearly a mile along the coast. The backs of those nearest the sea are built up and fortified with row after row of piles and balks of timber fastened together with iron chains and clamps. For the sea is fierce when the tides are high and a west wind is blowing in Cardigan Bay. The very houses themselves are low built to meet the storms, and the slates are strengthened with layers of cement. But year after year the sea takes its toll of the inhabitants. It sweeps their homes with water and strikes them with flying shingle. It fills the back yards knee deep with foaming waves and carries away the outhouses. At one end of the village it even undermines the masonry itself, and beats some hapless cottage into a heap of bricks and mortar. And year after year the patient folks rebuild, and re-fortify, and replace, content to live on their ridge by the courtesy of an angry ocean, though within half a mile the cliffs begin to rise from the beach, and their houses might be built on solid rock for all time.

       The inhabitants of this little place are chiefly sailors and fisherfolk. Captains are exceeding plentiful. Some have retired on their savings, and make a rich harvest by letting out their tiny rooms at exorbitant rates to visitors in the summer. Others are on active service. For months, for a year, for two years perhaps they disappear and return with considerable savings and much to tell to those that wait for them. Rough fellows some of them are, mostly small and tough, but men to whom the nation owes much. They live a hard life, and enjoy their rent when it comes to them. A stranger walking down the street, would say he had never seen so many loafers in a village before — strong able bodied fellows lounging in the doorways with pipes in their mouths and absolutely idle from morning to night. Yet more than one of them has compressed as much physical labour and mental anxiety into forty-eight hours as most people experience in six months.

       To the north of the village the country lies flat and low, a mere line of sand hills and shingle ending in the estuary of the Llyn. To the south it rises into hills, and the coast line changes to cliffs 500 or 600 feet in height, with enormous rocks piled up at their bases, through which the sea rushes with thunderous clamour, and the burst of foam and spray.

       Directly behind the village, and almost on a level with the high tides stretches the great bog of Gogerddan. It is intersected in every direction with dykes, and a small river flows through it from the hills to join the Llyn. Some of these dykes are filled with dark brown water and are absolutely stagnant. Others feel the ebb and the flow of the tides, and their depth depends on the movements of the sea up the estuary some four miles off. The bog is covered with heather and rushes, and is almost valueless as pasture. The peat, however, supplies twenty villages with fuel, and the stacks of it break the monotony of the surface with tall brown heaps, built up square and sturdy like the towers of some old fortalice.

       All round this bog and on the far side of the estuary rise the mountains, towering out of woods into barren escarpments of rock. Most of them are over two thousand feet in height, and they form so gigantic and imposing a wall that one is surprised to see further heights rising above them in the far distance. These are part of the great barrier of Wales, and to this day they have kept the Welsh customs and Welsh language as living things in spite of the great tide of Saxons that beat against them from the east.

       At the foot of those hills lies the village of Trethol, noted through all the country side for its flannels, which are woven on hand looms in the houses of the cottagers. And looking across the bog from Garth one large house stands out white and clear among the trees, and when the sun is setting its long line of windows turn it into a bar of flame. Behind it and on either side the woods run up the mountain. In front its gardens slope down to a long grey wall, beneath which the woods again encircle it, and the tops of some of the trees are almost on a level with the coping of the wall, and so steep is the descent that it is almost possible to lean over and touch their boughs.

       Here, one evening in May, nearly twelve months after the events recorded in the last chapter, a young girl stood alone, and gazed across the Gogerddan to the sea. In the light of the setting sun something sparkled on her cheek like a drop of liquid gold. Her face was very beautiful, and her beauty was only emphasised by the sorrow in her eyes as she gazed out across the sea.

       In her hand she held a small scrap of paper, ragged and creased with much handling. Every now and then she would read it and press it to her lips. It only contained four verses of indifferent, poetry; but even Shakespeare might have been proud of such a tribute from so fair, a maid. The lines ran as follows:—

Have you remembrance of that night, The long low line of tawny sand. The sullen stretch of marshy land, Beneath the mountains' purple height; The cottage lights upon the lea, The ebon cliffs against the sky. The weary curlew's farewell cry From shadowed field to silent sea: The path ascending round the hill, The blurred expanse of grey below, The fenpools flaming with the glow Of one gold bar that lingered still; Then dark against the topaz light. Two lovely figures, man and maid, And one too trembling and afraid. Have you remembrance of that night?

       They were signed "E.T."

       "Have I remembrance?" she murmured to herself. "Have I remembrance?" And then the sun sank below the horizon, and the one gold bar lingered still, and she heard the cry of the curlew, and saw the flaming light on the fenpools. It was just such a scene as the verses described. "That night," came back to her, and she burst into tears.

       She was roused from her mournful reverie by a harsh voice calling from the lawn:—

       "Myvanwy! Myvanwy!"

       "Yes, father."

       "Do you know the time? Dinner is in half an hour, and you haven't started to dress yet. You know the Walroyds are coming to-night?"

       "Yes, father; I am coming."

       She hastily dried her eyes and turned her back on the west. But before she entered the house she looked back once more, and saw the sails of a brigantine silhouetted black against the golden sky. She bit her lip, and passed in. The very sight of a ship was agony to her.

       She put on a plain black dinner-frock and came down to the drawing-room. There she found her father standing by the fireplace. There was a look of impatience on his face, and he held a watch in his hand.

       "It is past the dinner-hour," he said abruptly. "When I was young guests had more courtesy, and the hostess was always ready to receive them half an hour before they were due."

       Myvanwy smiled sadly

       "They are Americans, father," she said, gently. "Their ideas are probably different."

       Mr. Morgan looked at her with disapproval.

       "Is that your best dress?" he said, harshly. "You look as if you were going to a funeral."

       "Black suits me, father," she answered; and she looked at herself in the glass with a little smile of vanity.

       And indeed she looked superb, with her dark hair and dark eyes, and her white arms and shoulders flashing from the sombre material of her dress. Yet it was not for that reason she wore black, and her father knew it, and it was the knowledge that made him speak so bitterly. As a rule, he cared nothing for a woman's dress, and regarded any smartness as a sign of empty vanity.

       "You are not old enough to wear black," he answered.

       Then he consulted his watch again and frowned.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER IV. — (Continued.)

       A hard, cold man was John Morgan of Llynglas. Bred up in a strict nonconformist family, he added all his natural harshness of character to the somewhat stern and narrow principles of his particular sect. He was poor, but poverty had had no chastening effect upon his mind. It had only served to warp his soul and arouse the worst traits of his nature. In his father's lifetime he had seen a fine property dwindle down to a few hundred acres of barren land, and a house which was only a mockery when there was no money to keep it up. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing that this was due to extravagance, and that he could lay the blame on a dead man. It had been due solely to a grasping spirit which he had himself inherited, a desire to make more money without the ability to make it, a longing for 10 per cent instead of a safe 4 per cent, an inclination to enter into the wildest schemes if they held out promise of immense fortunes. It is often the peculiarity of the hard and grasping man, that though he will save pennies at every turn, and strive his utmost to do other men out of odd shillings, yet he is utterly reckless when his vision is dazzled by prospects of gold and he is the easiest prey of the clever and unscrupulous adventurer.

       Such a man had been Morgan Morgan, and his son now reaped the fruits of his avarice. The great house was almost as empty as a barn. The finest pictures had gone from the walls, and had not even been replaced by inferior copies. The library was a mere row of empty bookshelves. The dining-room would have disgraced a third-rate restaurant. The grounds about the house were ill-kept and overgrown with weeds. But the sight of all those things failed to impress John Morgan with the vanity of earthly possessions. It only filled him with a strong and immovable purpose, to make good the waste, to restore the fortunes of his family at any cost.

       It was therefore the irony of fate that two years ago young Emrys Trodegar should have fallen in love with his daughter and won her heart. The young man, though of a family even superior to his own, was, if possible, in a still more hopeless financial condition. But Emrys Tredegar was dead — or, to use a phrase made familiar by the South African war, "missing" — and it seemed now that matters might work out to a satisfactory conclusion. Before young Tredegar had sailed for Peru, he had let his house to two rich American brothers — the Walroyds, of Chicago. They were reputed to be millionaires, and though nothing was known of their previous history, that was nothing to their discredit. They hailed from a country where men became rich in a single night, and no one comments on the fact. The elder brother Cyrus P. Walroyd was undoubtedly in love with Myvanwy. He had even expressed his desire to marry an Englishwoman of good family and resuscitate the fortune of some fallen house for his own children. The only obstacle to the consummation of this ideal match was Myvanwy herself. And that is why on this night her father snapped like an angry dog at her, and the mere sight of her black dress irritated him beyond endurance.

       He looked once more at his watch, and tapped his feet impatiently. Myvanwy had seated herself in a chair, and was idly turning over the pages of a magazine. His mood was such that he could not leave her alone.

       "I hope you will be civil to these Walroyds to-night, Myvanwy," he said, abruptly. "They are people I wish to keep friends with."

       "Why should I not be civil?" she answered, scarcely raising her eyes from her book.

       "The last time they were here you were barely so. But I must ask you to remember that my guests must be treated with cordiality."

       Myvanwy flushed, and looked her father straight in the face.

       "Which one do you wish me to be most civil — to be most cordial to?"

       Mr. Morgan bit his lips with vexation and turned his back on his daughter. Then he suddenly swung round and faced her.

       "Cyrus Walroyd loves you, Myvanwy," he said sternly.

       "I am honoured," she said coldly, "and I am sorry for him. I am, as you know, not likely to return his affection."

       At that moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and a heavy knock at the hall door. A few moments later the door was flung open by a wizened old butler attired in very ill-fitting clothes, and two men entered. Myvanwy rose to meet them and extended her hand with a smile. The elder took it in silence, and the marks of his muscular fingers could be seen on the flesh when he loosened it from his grasp. The younger took it with more elaborate courtesy and less warmth. Both apologised curtly for their unpunctuality which was due to the breaking of a shaft on Taliesin Hill. They had walked the last three-quarters of a mile.

       The two brothers were fine men, lean, square built, and tall. John T. Walroyd, the younger, had the high cheek bones and keen angular face which in some mysterious way the true-born American has inherited from the soil; as the North American Indian did before him. The features of the elder were of a coarser type. The face was more square and the jaw more heavy. It was plain that both were masterful men, each in his own way, the elder by brute force, and the younger by sheer tenacity of purpose which would travel by many a devious path, but always keep the goal in sight. They would both have been handsome if their clean-shaven faces had not been so deeply lined. To a casual observer they would have seemed types of the strenuous business man, whose fortune has been built up by sheer hard work, and has cost many an anxious day and sleepless night to prevent it from tottering to the ground. But a student of character would have seen an expression in their eyes which had nothing to do with the making and retaining of money. In one the savage nature of a tiger, in the other the keen look of a wolf that is hunting down its prey, and yet has itself to avoid the hunter.

       Both men were faultlessly attired, Their coats were just the right length, their trousers just the right cut. They had not an article of jewellery between them, and even their studs were of plain white enamel. Their ties hit the happy medium between severe simplicity and artistic negligence. To all appearance they were two ordinary English gentlemen of tact and culture. Only a keen observer could have detected something out of the common behind their mark of politeness, some thing that spoke vaguely of another life they had lived, a life in which evening clothes and faultless white ties were unknown quantities.

       The dinner was, as such things go, a success. It is true that the food was plain, and that the cook had done nothing to elaborate the scanty materials at her command. It was also true that the wine was indifferent. But both host and hostess proved themselves accomplished entertainers. Myvanwy's natural sweetness of character showed itself to the best advantage, though her heart was sad, and she disliked at least one of her guests. Her father, in spite of his harsh nature, was a man of no ordinary ability, and whatever he had to say about a subject was worth listening to. The two Walroyds were full of anecdote. There seemed to be few parts of the world that they had not seen, and their terse quiet method of narrating the most stirring incidents would have been a valuable object lesson to many novelists.

       After dinner Myvanwy left the men to smoke their cigars, and strolled out on the terrace. It was a warm night and she longed for the fresh air. The whole atmosphere of the dining-room had been false and artificial. She knew well that at least three members of the party had been thinking of one thing and talking about another. That Cyrus Walroyd had been thinking of her, and had scarcely been able to conceal the passion in his eyes. That her father had been thinking of restored prosperity; that she herself had been thinking of Emrys Tredegar. And though she did not know it, John Walroyd's mind had been farther away than any of the other three.

       The moon had risen, and the bog of Gogerddan was white with wreaths of mist. All round it the mountains towered up like a gigantic wall of ebony. In the distance the little village of Garth showed like a dim black line. The sea was marked with a broad path of silver. A single ship stood out against the glistening waves. It was motionless and apparently riding at anchor. Myvanwy could see its lights and she sighed. There was happiness in one cottage to-night. She knew that whenever a ship anchored in the bay it meant the brief but joyful visit of some father, or brother, or husband. In the morning he would put off again, and the ship would go its way.

       A faint breeze came from the sea and stirred the tops of the pines beneath her feet. Then she saw a tiny speck of black moving towards the vessel. It was a boat. She turned away and buried her face in her hands.

       A few minutes afterwards she heard footsteps and saw the red tip of a cigar glowing through the darkness. Then a white shirt front gleamed through the shrubs, and Cyrus Walroyd came to her side.

       "It is better here than indoors, Miss Morgan," he said abruptly. "My brother and your father are talking business. I looked for you in the drawing-room."

       "It is a lovely night," she answered simply, "but it is getting chilly," and she half turned as though to go.

       "Yes, it is a lovely night," he said, throwing his cigar to the ground, and coming a little closer to her so as to bar her path. She looked up at him and smiled a little uneasily. She knew what was coming, and thought it best to get it over. She sat down on the coping, of the wall, and looked out towards the sea.

       "The moonlight on the waters is beautiful," she said after a pause. "One can scarcely imagine that ship to be real. It ought to have silver masts and sails of cloth of gold, and be laden with jewels, and apes, and peacocks. Its crew should be swarthy men of the east with rings in their ears and swords and gay sashes. But I fear they are very ordinary people and that the cargo is most, likely coal."

       "Do you not like coal, Miss Morgan," he said, "and — and ordinary people? To me they are more useful than apes and peacocks, and dark eyed easterns, and being more useful are better."

       "I think," she replied, "that one wants something useless and picturesque nowadays. There is too much talk of facts, and progress, and machinery. Life is not all a commercial undertaking."

       "Nor is it all a dream," he answered tenderly, "though of late even I have been dreaming. Miss Morgan, I am a plain man, who has roughed it in all parts of the world. I have had to fight my way, and I have got many scars in the process. I am rich, but there is something I want more than wealth. I have not the pretty language of the poets at my command, but I will tell you what I want in half a dozen words. Myvanwy, I love you, and I want you to be my wife." He came closer toward her, and tried to take her hand. She drew it gently aside and stared out at the silver pathway on the sea, as though she expected to see someone rise out of the waves and come towards her.

       For a minute or two there was silence. A solitary curlew cried down in the bog of Gogerddan, and in the far distance there was the sound of a horse's hoofs clattering along the road to Trethol. The man's eyes watched her face hungrily, but the fare was almost like a mask of stone.

       "Myvanwy," he repeated, "I have asked you to be my wife. I am rich, and your marriage with me would meet with your father's approval. I love you passionately. This is not the love of a boy. It is something too strong and terrible to spent; much about. I cannot pour words of love into your ears. If I spoke them I do not know what I might say."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER IV. — (Continued.)

       She turned round and looked at his face. The moonlight, was upon it, and the dark lines looked as though they had been traced with a pencil on the face of a marble statue. It was grim, drawn, and immovable. Only the deepset eyes glowed with passion, and they almost seemed to devour her as she mot them with her own quiet gaze.

       "It is impossible, Mr. Walroyd," she answered in a low voice. "Do you not know it is impossible?"

       "Emrys Tredegar is dead," he answered curtly. "His ship never reached Lima. It was due there more than a year ago. One of the boats was found floating bottom upwards in the South Pacific. Another ship reported the burnt, hull of a vessel 200 miles east of where that boat was found. There is little doubt that it was the White Swallow. All this is history, known to everyone. I am not inventing it for my own purposes."

       Again there was silence. The curlew had ceased to cry and had gone to rest. It was more than a minute before Myvanwy answered. She looked out again at the sea with parted lips and clasped hands. Then she got off the wall and faced the him.

       "Even if he is dead," she said in a low, strained voice, "it does not matter. Before he left England I swore I would be true to him and wait for his return. If he comes I am still here to receive him. If he never returns, I have but to wait until I die. Women have done that before now, Mr. Walroyd. They are not so weak as men suppose."

       The man's eyes blazed fiercely, and striding towards the girl he caught her by the wrists and looked into her eyes. The brute beast had risen within him, and he could no longer contain himself.

       "It matters not whether he be living or dead," he said hoarsely; "I love you, and you shall be my wife. I can wait; I have rarely waited in vain for anything that I desire. Do you know that the very house you live in is mine; that this land is mine, if I choose to take it; that I have bought your father body and soul, and could turn you both out of here to-morrow."

       "In other words," she said, with a contemptuous curl of her upper lip, "you have tried to buy me. Let go my hands, Mr. Walroyd. Your touch is loathsome to me. There are other houses to live in than this. As for my father, he can make his own bargains and pay his own debts. A few minutes ago I respected you, though I could not marry you. Masterful men like you compel respect, but one does not respect wild animals. Let go my hands, I say, or I will call out."

       Her face was white with fury, and for the moment she felt more like a trapped tigress than a sweet natured woman. Her whole soul had risen in revolt at this outrage. Her mind, filled with loving thoughts of the dead, was stung to madness by the rude grasp of this man. Her eyes flashed dangerously. She would have struck him in the face if her hands had been free.

       Cyrus Walroyd laughed. This was a woman after his own heart, and he loved her all the more for this outbreak of passion. But a second later a look of horror crossed his face, his jaw fell, and suddenly loosing her wrists he struck savagely at something that was running across one of his own hands. It was only a little harmless spider. But he had struck, as though it had been an adder. Nothing remained of it but a small blotch of blood, he rubbed his hand vigorously with his handkerchief. and removed all traces of it. Then he looked up quickly to see if Myvanwy had noticed his action. But she was several yards away from him. He hesitated for a moment, and then turning sharply he walked up the path, and re-entered the house.

       Myvanwy stood for a few minutes by the terrace, trying to calm the fury of her mind and collect her thoughts. She was still breathing hard from the struggle, and two red rings round her wrist, bore witness to her shame. She turned towards the house, walking round the shrubbery to a side entrance where she hoped to slip in unobserved, and go straight to her own room. It was no time to go through the farce of being a polite hostess. The ready excuse of a headache would do for John Walroyd. His brother needed no excuse at all. As she passed into the drive she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the hill. She shrank out of the moonlight behind a laurustinus. She had to cross the drive to reach her destination, and did not wish to meet anyone. She thought it was probably Cyrus Walroyd who might have taken a short walk to master his agitation before he entered the house.

       Then the tall figure of a man strode out of the shadow of the avenue into an open patch of light and stood still with the moon streaming full on his face. Myvanwy drew in her breath sharply, and bit her lips to restrain a cry. For it was the face and form of Emrys Tredegar.

       He was staring at a window in the house. Myvanwy's own bedroom window. It was in darkness, but he gazed at it as though it held all the light of the universe. Myvanwy looked at him in horror. His face was drawn and white, and there was something unearthly in the look of his eyes. His hair was wild and unkempt. She knew that he had come for her, that her dead lover had come from the sea to call her, to speak to her, to take her away with him. She had waited for this hour and now he had come. Her overwrought brain fancied that he had come up the silver pathway from the west and together they would tread the same pathway back to whence he came. She stepped forward with open arms, and crying out his name, sank heavily to the ground.

       When she came to her senses she found herself in a pair of strong arms and warm passionate kisses were being showered upon her eyes and cheeks, and lips and hands. She smiled faintly and closed her hands. If this were death, it was good to die.

       "Myvanwy, Myvanwy," he cried, "what is the matter, darling? Don't you know me? I am here, safe and well, your lover Emrys. I landed two hours ago. The ship is still in the bay. Myvanwy, my dearest one, speak to me, look at me, after all these months." And again he kissed her and still again.

       She opened her eyes and looked at him. Then she threw her arms round his neck and know the glorious truth, Emrys Tredegar was alive.

 
CHAPTER V.
THIS FACE AT THIS WINDOW.

       Five minutes afterwards they entered the house together. Cyrus Walroyd had already concocted an excuse for Myvanwy. telling the others that she had felt unwell and had gone to bed. Mr. Morgan understood, but he could not read from the American's face what had been the result of their interview.

       If a thunderbolt had fallen from heaven it could not have caused more consternation than the appearance of the two lovers at the door of the smoking-room. All three men rose to their feet and looked at the form of Tredegar as though it had been some gigantic apparition looming through the blue wreaths of smoke from their cigars. Myvanwy was the first to speak.

       "Emrys, father," she said, nervously. "Don't you know him? He has come back — he is not dead; he landed to-night in the bay — Captain Edward Williams's boat. I met him at the door."

       She slopped, and Emrys moved across the room with extended hand. The three, men gave him a cordial greeting. They could scarcely do less with any show of decency. But one or two keen glances passed between Cyrus and Mr. Morgan. Myvanwy noticed them, and her cheeks burned with shame; but Emrys, rejoicing in his return to life and the woman he loved, saw nothing but a kindly circle of men extending him a hearty welcome. Mr. Morgan offered him the most comfortable chair, selected a cigar from his own special box, poured him out a whisky-and-soda, and the whole party drew round the fire, in a genial ring of friendship. And there, in the firelight, Tredegar told of his adventures, of the shipwreck, of the horrors of the island, of his solitary life, and how nine months after he had first landed a small ship had appeared off the coast. Her sails were torn and some of her spars broken. She had been driven out of her course by a great storm. Then Tredegar told how he had raised a signal on the cliffs — a shirt tied to one of the oars — and how no one had answered. Then how at night he had lit a great fire, and had fallen on his knees and prayed; and in less than an hour's time he had heard the splash of oars and the shouts of men's voices. He had then gone down to the shore and shouted out warnings, telling them to wait till daybreak, and then row round the coast to the other ravine. Then he had heard the oars die away in the distance, and he had spent his last night, on the island in making his way round to the place where they had made their first encampment. At the break of day he lit another fire of dump wood at the entrance of the gorge, and a pillar of smoke had guided his rescuers to the place. When he had been taken on board the vessel, he found to his surprise that the captain hailed from Garth, and it had seemed to him as though he had stepped straight from the horrors of the island on to the shores of Cardiganshire, the captain, however, had not visited his native village for over two years, and Tredegar had to give rather than receive, news. The ship was bound for Liverpool, and Captain Williams had decided to put into Cardigan Bay, and land for a few hours to see his wife and children. And this is how he, Tredegar, had come without, warning by telegram or letter. This was the first place they had touched at since they left the island.

       All this he told in the firelight; but one thing he did not tell. He said nothing of the strange monster on the island, nor of how his companions had died. Somehow or other he felt that he could not speak of these terrible things in the presence of Myvanwy. So he was silent on this point. He led his hearers to suppose that some of his companions had been killed by wild beasts, and that some had died of starvation.

       While he was telling his story, Myvanwy's eyes were filled with tears. He told it in simple words, with no attempt at exaggerating its horrors or painting his own misery with fine language. But it was sufficiently pathetic in itself. One of his hands was in the shadow by her side, and she touched it gently as he told of the awful solitude of the past nine months. Her touch told him that he had never been alone, and that her heart and thoughts had been always with him.

       Mr. Morgan listened with keen interest, and his heart was softened towards Tredegar. It was a pity, he said to himself, that the fellow was poor, for he was a fine specimen of a man. He then formed some vague idea in his mind of the young man making his fortune by lecturing on his experiences. He had heard of such things being done.

       The face of Cyrus Walroyd was in the shadow, and his brother's features were set like a mask. Only the keen eyes showed the interest that he took in the narrative. A close observer might have noticed that they followed every expression of the speaker's features, as though the mind was drinking in every word, weighing the evidence, and estimating the truth of the story.

       When Tredegar had finished, he drew from his pocket the half disc of yellow metal. He told them he had picked it up on the shore. He handed it to Mr. Morgan. The latter examined it carefully, and with evident interest.

       "This is very extraordinary," he said, after he had scrutinised the lettering. "It is an old Welsh thing. I cannot translate it for you, but I can give you a letter of introduction to a man who is an expert in such matters. I should say it had something to do with bards or priests. There is a symbol on it which I have seen before somewhere — a circle and a triangle. Let me see, where was it? Ah, I remember now! It was on the gold ring you gave me last Christmas, Cyrus. That is very curious."

       Cyrus Walroyd leaned forward and laughed.

       "It is curious," he said. "I remember the ring. I bought it in London. It was guaranteed to be early Welsh; but then we Americans generally get taken in."

       Mr. Morgan crossed the room to the cabinet, and the two Walroyds exchanged swift glances when his back was turned. He found the ring and showed it to Emrys. It was a plain circlet of dull gold, and the mark was certainly there, faint and small, on the inner surface.

       "This is very extraordinary!" Tredegar said, "I cannot under stand how such a ring could have any. connection with a half disc found on a lonely Pacific island."

       "You spoke' of a ship," John Walroyd said — "an old Spanish galleon. It is possibly a piece of captured treasure. It might have belonged to some Welsh or English gentleman taken on the high seas. May I look at it for a moment?"

       Tredegar handed him the disc, and the latter examined it carefully, and passed it to his brother.

       Cyrus Walroyd weighed it thoughtfully in his hand.

       "It is certainly gold," he said, "and doubtless of great antiquity. It is a pity that half of it is missing. I am collecting Welsh antiquities. You need not smile, John P. Walroyd. I am one of those Americans, who like to interest themselves in the old things of the country they live in. You would not care to sell it, I suppose, Mr. Tredegar?"

       "I don't think so," Tredegar answered. "It means more to me than to anyone else."

       "Of course — of course," Cyrus exclaimed; "it does mean more to you than to anyone else. Yet it will not recall very pleasant memories."

       "The remembrance of past misery is often happiness," Myvanwy said with a smile. "Just as the recollection of past pleasure is often pain."

       Cyrus Walroyd frowned ever so slightly, and handed the disc back to Tredegar, who placed it in his pocket. For a few seconds there was silence. Then Tredegar rose from his chair to go. It was after twelve o'clock, and he had a long walk before him.

       "You will go by the road, I suppose," said Mr. Morgan, rising and holding out the box of cigars to his visitor.

       "No, by the path across the bog," replied Tredegar taking a cigar and biting off the end. "It is quite light and I know the way well."

       This two Walroyds rose simultaneously.

       "We may as well walk with you, Mr. Tredegar," they said. "We told the coachman not to call for us. We shall go most of the way together. I suppose you are staying in the village."

       "Yes, at the Tredegar Arms. It's stuffy and uncomfortable, but one can't choose in a place like Garth. Good-night, Myvanwy." And he held out his hand. She took it, and he saw a sudden look of anxiety, cross her face.

       "Good-night," she said, glancing at the others. She wanted to speak for a moment with him alone. But she did not see how it could be managed, or how to let Tredegar know that she wished it. Neither her father nor Cyrus Walroyd were likely to give her the chance. But her woman's quick wit conceived an idea. It was only a possibility. But she snatched at it.

       They all went out into the hall together, while the Walroyds put on their coats. Tredegar had nothing but the clothes he stood up in. The hall was a large square one with two pillars supporting the ceiling. Three great windows in a line opened out on to the lawn. The moonlight was shining brightly outside, but most of the hall was in darkness, save for the faint light from the candle which Myvanwy had carried out from the drawing-room. Suddenly Myvanwy gave a little cry, and catching Tredegar by thee arm dropped the candle, and pointed to one of the windows. All the, men turned and looked in the direction in which she was pointing. There was nothing to be seen.

       "What is it, Myvanwy? her father said sharply.

       "A man!" she replied. "I saw his face at the window." The two Walroyds and Mr. Morgan rushed to the door, and made their way quickly round to the lawn. Tredegar would have followed, but he was held back by Myvanwy's touch on the arm. He laughed. He saw her little ruse. He loved her for it. He look her in his arms and kissed her. She freed herself from his passionate embrace.

       "Be careful to-night," she whispered hurriedly. "Some of the planks across the dykes are narrow, and the dykes are deep. Cyrus Walroyd is no friend of yours. He has no scruples."

       "I have done him no wrong," he answered.

       "He is no friend of yours," she repeated. "Please be careful for my sake."

       "Why should he harm me?"

       "I can't tell you, Emrys," she answered. "Perhaps you can guess. But be careful."

       Tredegar laughed. "I think I am a match for the two of them," he said. Three figures passed the window and were silhouetted against the moonlight. Tredegar lit a match, and groped for the candle on the floor. He re-lit it just as the others entered the hall door. They all three glanced at the lovers.

       "A pretty trick, Myvanwy," said Mr. Morgan, with a sneer. "Quite a stage trick. I am sorry you did not come with us, Mr. Tredegar."

       "I thought, Myvanwy might be afraid of being left alone, Mr. Morgan!"

       "Most thoughtful of you, I am sure."

       Tredegar did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the window. The other three men had their backs to it. Then Myvanwy screamed, and again pointed. But this time it was in earnest.

       "Beautiful." said Mr. Morgan. "You are doing it much better this time, Myvanwy."

       "You fool!" exclaimed Tredegar, taking a step forward; "look behind you."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER V. — (Continued.)

       They all looked, and black against the moonlight they saw the gigantic head and shoulder's of a man, and a great pair of hands grasping the window sill. The flickering candle threw so feeble a light across the wide hall that none of them could distinguish the features. But the whole outline seemed dim and shaggy, like the outline of a beast. Tredegar sprang forward and the head and shoulders disappeared. Two seconds later he was out of the window, followed by the others. They saw something moving swiftly down the shadows of the shrubbery. Then it slid over the wall, and they heard a crash among the trees. They all rushed to the spot, but saw nothing. They could, however, hear it moving through the wood. Tredegar was for following up the chase, but the others refused, and he could not very well go by himself. They all, returned to the drive. There the Walroyds and Tredegar said good-night, and set out towards Garth. Tredegar remembered Myvanwy's warning, and kept all his senses on the alert. It seemed ridiculous to suppose that Cyrus Walroyd meant him any harm. In any case, it was very unlikely that he would do anything on their walk back to Garth. As a matter of fact, he found the two brothers most charming and entertaining companions, and before they were half way across the bog he was ashamed of himself for having harboured any suspicion against them. Cyrus made himself particularly agreeable, and just as they were nearing the place where they would have to part company he gave Emrys a cordial invitation to spend a few days at Plas Tredegar.

       "As you remarked," he said, "the inn is stuffy and uncomfortable. There are one or two things in connection with the house that I should like to talk over with you, and I would rather you saw to them personally. Besides, you would perhaps like to have a look at your own home, and see we are not damaging it in any way. I daresay we can fix you up in your old bedroom if you told us which it is."

       Tredegar gladly accepted the offer, and arranged to move in on the following day. He could not get Myvanwy's warning out of his mind. But he did not look forward to the inn with pleasure. Besides, as Walroyd had suggested, he did wish to sleep a night in his old room. From mere sentimental reasons he realised the degradation of the owner of the finest house within twenty miles being an outcast at a small inn. Yet if he had known all he would rather have slept on the bench than have occupied this insolent hospitality. Walroyd had shrewdly guessed that Myvanwy had told him nothing.

       They parted where a narrow bridge crossed the little tributary of the Llyn, and in less than a quarter of an hour Tredegar was in his tiny bedroom at the Tredegar Arms. He had much to think of before he went to sleep. It seemed as though his cup of joy was full to overflowing, for had he not once more held Myvanwy in his arms, and all his poverty, and all his past suffering faded away to nothing, in the light of this great happiness.

       But as he slept the shadow of a great fear came over his dreams. The past horrors of the island rose before him, and a wild face with tawny hair haunted him through all the night.

 
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE PLAS
TREDEGAR.

       In the morning Tredegar walked over to Llanfihangel, a small town some six miles off, and purchased a complete outfit, he had never realised before how much it cost to equip a man with even the bare necessities of a wardrobe, when one has lost everything. It was fortunate that he was not expected to pay cash for anything. The trades people welcomed him with open arms, and he could have bought the contents of every shop if he had wished to do so. He returned with as many brown paper parcels as he could carry, and sent them up to the Plas Tredegar. But there was one thing he could not purchase, and that was a suit of clothes. None of the ready-made articles would fit his gigantic form, and he was glad that there was no excuse for buying them. The old blue serge manufactured on board ship by a sailor, would have to serve him for both morning and evening wear.

       He left the inn at five o'clock and walked up the cliffs to his old home.

       The Plas Tredegar stood some 300 feet above the level of the sea on a hill facing the north west. It lay about a quarter of a mile inland, and the grounds ran down to the edge of the cliff itself. The house was one of the oldest and most important in the county. It was said that a Tredegar had lived there in the tenth century, when the building had consisted of no more than a round low tower of rough and uncemented stone. Part of the tower still remained. It stood alone almost on the edge of the cliff. The house itself was irregular in shape, and comprised almost every style of architecture from the thirteenth to the eighteenth centuries. It was not large compared to some of the great historic houses of England, but no Tredegar would have exchanged it for Raby, or Alnwick, or Arundel. It had been to them the ever-living symbol of their race, every wing of it marked some epoch in their history. The Normans, nay even the Saxons before them, were but invaders in the eyes of the Tredegars. They claimed to be Britons, and their curiously devised pedigree, which was painted on the oak panels of the hall, showed a descent which ran back through history to the farthest realms of myth and fable.

       The grounds, like those of many houses along the coast, were thickly wooded, so as to afford some protection from the westerly gales, and the house itself was scarcely visible from the sea. The old builders had small sympathy with extensive views. The beauties of sunset and storm meant nothing to them. They only sought protection — a roof to keep off the rain, deep woods to keep off the wind, and thick walls to keep out their enemies.

       It was with mingled feelings of pride and shame that Emrys Tredegar returned to the home of his forefathers. Every inch of the house and grounds had been familiar to him from his boyhood. His face flushed as he walked up the drive and caught the faint glimpse of the sunlight on the old grey walls, and the mullioned windows, and the great porch and doorway, built by Inigo Jones in the seventeenth century. It was difficult to accept strangers' hospitality in such a place. Yet he thanked God that it was not yet lost to him, and though the rent he received was barely sufficient to pay the interest on the numerous mortgages executed by his uncle and grandfather, there was still a hope that he might be able to live in it again. Yet it was hard to think that no Tredegar lived within its walls. As far as Emrys could remember, he was the first of all his race to hire out his home to strangers.

       The Walroyds, however, received him with such cordiality and did so much to put him at his ease in a rather embarrassing position, that those melancholy thoughts were soon banished from his mind. They set apart a suite of rooms for his use, consisting of a bedroom, sitting-room, and bathroom, told off a man servant, to act as his valet, and did their utmost to make him feel that he was the host and owner of the house, and that they were only the guests. Noticing his costume, they neither of them dressed for dinner, and even went so far as to select rather old clothes for the occasion.

       After dinner they adjourned to the smoking-room and chatted on general subjects.

       About 9.30 a man from village inn brought up a letter for Tredegar. He glanced at the writing, and saw that it was from Myvanwy. He placed it in his pocket, He did not care to read it before the two Walroyds.

       At 11 o'clock John Walroyd went to bed. Then Cyrus suggested that they should go to Tredegar's own sitting-room and discuss business. He told the footman to take across the cigars, whisky, and glasses. Then the two men went into the room and settled themselves down in two comfortable chairs.

       This room was one of the oldest in the house, and had formed part of the original dwelling built by Mabon Tredegar in the twelfth century. The walls and floors were of stone, and the single large window with its semi-circular arch had been constructed before the time of mullions and transoms. The lower half of it had been filled in with a large sheet of plate-glass framed in iron which opened outwards on hinges. Opposite to the entrance of the apartment there was another door set in a deep stone archway. This opened into the bedroom. Beyond the latter was a third room, originally nothing but a small stone cell. This had been converted into a bathroom. All the rooms were on the ground floor.

       From his earliest, boyhood Tredegar had always taken a fancy to these rooms. He had conjured up all sorts of legends about them. Their very discomfort, and their grim coldness had spoken to his boyish fancy of warlike people and troublous times, It was here that he had conjured up visions of Cadwallader, and Taliesin, and had held the place single handed against a hundred English knights.

       In those days the sitting-room had been his bedroom, and the other two apartments had been filled with lumber. As he looked at them now, he could not help feeling jealous of the changes that wealth had accomplished. The stone floors worn covered with thick Turkey carpets, and the bare walls hung with velvet tapestries. The electric light glowed from a dozen shaded globes. Handsome pieces of old oak furniture were scattered about the room, and rare pieces of china ornamented every shelf and table. The bedroom had been furnished by Maple in the Louis XV. style, and the bathroom had transformed into a little paradise of white tiles and smooth marble, and nickel plated fittings. All this had been done in a year by the power of an unlimited banking account. The Walroyds had taken the place for fourteen years, and had spared no expense in making it a luxurious home.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER VI. — (Continued.)

       The two men lit their cigars and for a few moments neither of them spoke. Tredegar's thoughts had run back through the past years to his boyhood, and Walroyd seemed to be turning over some knotty problem in his mind. At last the latter broke the silence.

       "I have a proposition to make to you, Mr. Tredegar," he said. "It will, of course, require consideration on your part, for it is on a matter of considerable importance. I only hope you will not be offended if I speak a little plainly, At any rate you may be sure that I mean no offence."

       "I shall take no offence if none is meant, Mr. Walroyd," he replied.

       "The rent I pay for this house is as much as I can afford," Walroyd continued. "It is, in fact, more than you could got from anyone else. But I think I am right in saying that this sum, together with the rents you get from the farms, cottages, &c., is barely sufficient to pay the interest on the mortgages."

       "If you wish to know," Tredegar answered coldly, "I will tell you that I got at present about £200 a year from the estate. Six years ago it was about £800. The farms and houses are all let, and the decrease is not due to loss of tenants, but to general agricultural depression. If one farmer was to go, I should have nothing. This, however, can scarcely interest you."

       "It interests me greatly," answered Walroyd. "I do not ask out of idle curiosity. I am prepared to make you an offer for the house and estate, which will pay off the mortgages and leave you a clear sum of £50,000. You will have a decent income for life."

       "It is impossible to consider it," Tredegar answered, abruptly.

       "You will, moreover," continued Walroyd, "be freed from the possibility of absolute ruin. The mortgagees cannot be very comfortable about their security. A margin of £200 a year is not much when the interest amounts to nearly £8,000 a year. If they foreclose and there is a forced sale, they will probably not get their money back, and you will get nothing."

       "It is impossible to sell the Tredegar estate," Tredegar replied; and then as he moved slightly in his chair something crackled in his pocket.

       It was Myvanwy's letter. He took a long drink or whisky and soda, and took up a cigarette with trembling fingers. He must think! He must think! Myvanwy! With this money they could be married! He rose to his feet, and, turning his face away from Walroyd, who was watching him narrowly, pretended to search on the mantel-piece for a match-box. He could not think clearly. It was impossible to decide. On the one hand, happiness; on the other, the duty he owed to his ancestors — the pride of race which bade him hold on to the estate to the last. It was impossible to decide till the matter had been thrashed out in his mind. He turned to Walroyd with a smile.

       "It is a big matter," he said. "I will think it over. Let us talk of something else." And sitting down in his chair, he drained his glass and puffed at his cigarette till he was almost hidden in the blue smoke.

       The conversation turned on general topics, and neither man mentioned the thing that was uppermost in their minds. At twelve o'clock Cyrus Walroyd poured Tredegar out another whisky and soda, said "good-night," and went off to bed. Tredegar heard him walk along the passage, and then heard his footsteps die away up a flight of stone stairs.

       Directly Tredegar was alone he drew Myvanwy's letter from his pocket, and opened it with the eager expectancy of a lover. But after he had read half a dozen lines, he rose to his feet with an oath, and striding across the floor, laid his hand on the handle of the door. Then he appeared to think better of his intentions, and returning to the fire-place, finished the letter. It was short, and ran as follows:—

       "DEAREST, — I have just heard that you have accepted the Walroyds' invitation to stay at the Plas Tredegar. I hinted something to you last night, but now I must speak out. If Cyrus Walroyd had been a man of honour, he would not have asked you to be his guest. As a man of honour yourself, you cannot accept, him as a host. Cyrus Walroyd asked me to marry him last night. I refused, and he insulted me. My father wishes me to marry him. He is your worst enemy. If this is too late to stop you from going to his house, leave it as soon as you can. With fondest love, my darling Emrys. I thank God every hour that, you have been brought back to me.

"From your loving and devoted                    
"MYVANWY."      

       Tredegar's face flushed scarlet, and his huge frame trembled with emotion. Once again he clenched his great fists, and strode towards the door. He would haul this cad from his room and beat the life out of him! The insolence of the beast! To receive with open arms the rival he had tried to displace! And on the very night of his attempt!

       "He insulted her!" he repeated. "He insulted her! By all that is holy he shall pay for it. But not yet!"

       His blood boiled with fury. He strode to the window, and, flinging it open, let the fresh night air cool his burning face. He did not notice that the window was already unlatched. Outside the wind rustled in the trees and in the ivy on the wall above him. Save for a distant light house, the whole land was dark. He was in no state to think. At any rate, Walroyd's purchase of the Tredegar estate was made impossible. He resolved to go to bed, and do nothing till his mind was more calm, he walked over to the door of the sitting-room and locked it. Then his eye fell on the whisky and soda Cyrus Walroyd had poured out for him. He drank half of it, turned out the electric lights, and closing his bedroom door, was in bed in less than ten minutes.

       In spite of the tumult of his mind he felt strangely drowsy, and was asleep in less than five minutes. When he woke up it was dark, and he had a splitting headache. He had a confused idea that he had lost something, and was looking for it in the darkness of space. Then he thought he heard a sound in the next room, and, reaching out his hand, he turned down the switch of the electric light. The room remained in darkness, and a sudden sense of fear came over him. He jumped out of bed, and, to his horror, found that he could hardly stand. His head swam, and he clutched the bed post to save himself from falling. In a minute or two he recovered himself. Then, fumbling for the matchbox in his waistcoat pocket, he struck a light and examined the room. There was nothing to be seen. He looked round for a candle, but could not find one. The match burnt to his fingers, and again he was in darkness. All was silent, and he got back into his bed. Again he had a strange idea that he had lost something. Then he turned over and went to sleep.

       When he woke again it was still dark. Something was moving in the room. He stretched out his hand for the matchbox which he had placed on a chair by his side. It had gone! He felt the chair, all over carefully, and then reached down on the floor, but the matchbox had disappeared. He sprang out of bed, and as he did so, he heard the door creak. He rushed towards it, and groping for the handle, flung it open. He saw something dark against the gray patch of window, and heard something else moving in the room. He called out, but no one answered. The next minute the dark form had sprung from the window to the floor; and a moment later there was a sound of a scuffle, the crash of breaking furniture, a thud, and then a long, horrible scream. He moved across the room with outstretched hands. In the confidence of his enormous strength he feared nothing. He only wished that he could see what was happening. Then something brushed past him. He grasped at it, but was too late, A dark form again showed against the window. In a second it was gone, and Tredegar heard the sound of footsteps on the stone paving beneath. In less than a minute the sounds had died away in the distance.

       Then he remembered there was a matchbox on the table with the cigars and glasses. He fumbled for it, and sent a decanter crashing to the floor. When he had found the box he struck a light, and the dim, flickering flame showed him the prostrate body of a man. There was a candle on the mantel-piece. He lit it, and examined the motionless form. It was Cyrus Walroyd, and he was dead. In one hand he grasped a letter. Tredegar recognised the envelope. It was the letter he had received from. Myvanwy that night. He tried to release it from the dead man's fingers, but could not. Then something glittered on the floor a yard or two away. Tredegar picked it up. It was the half of the golden disc. He put it in his pocket. At that moment there was a sound of footsteps outside, and the voices of men talking eagerly together. The handle of the door was turned, but the door was locked. Then there was a thundering on the thick oak panels. Tredegar moved forward to turn the key. Then he suddenly stopped, and a look of horror came over his face.

       He saw the whole situation in a glance. Cyrus Walroyd had been last seen by the footman in his rooms. The door was locked. Cyrus Walroyd was there still, and dead. In his hand was Myvanwy's letter, telling Tredegar that Walroyd was his worst enemy. The furniture was shifted and broken. The dead man had been killed by someone of enormous strength. The conclusion was obvious to an unprejudiced mind that knew nothing of the real facts of the case. There had been a quarrel about Myvanwy Morgan, and Tredegar had broken his rival's back in an outburst of passionate jealousy and hatred.

       For a moment clear reasoning prevailed, and he resolved to open the door and prove his innocence. He saw that flight would confirm the suspicion of his guilt. But the efforts of the drugged whisky had weakened his nerve. He hesitated, and then rushed to his bedroom. In less than three minutes he had thrown on his clothes and had resolved on a plan of action. It was fortunate that he had that day cashed a cheque for £25. He thrust the gold into his pocket. And all the time men thundered at the door and cried out to him to open it.

       He slipped quietly to the window ledge and sprang to the ground. Someone seized him, and he flung the fool with a crash against the stone wall. In a second he had disappeared into the woods and was making his way eastwards to the junction to catch the midnight mail. He know he had a few minutes' start. The man he had flung against the wall would be silent for a while, if indeed he ever spoke again. He hurried onwards in the darkness. There was no time to think. His only idea was to escape. Even Myvanwy was far from his thoughts. Hp was dizzy and confused. He could not think. But he plunged forward through the night, as though all the hounds of hell were pursuing him through the dark and lonely woods.

       Before he had gone very far he had changed his mind about getting in at the junction, and walked to a station three miles farther up the line. The down train went direct to Liverpool, and he took a ticket for that place. For twenty miles from where, he entered it there was another junction where he could catch the London mail. He knew that before an hour had elapsed telegrams would be flying all over the country. This ruse would at any rate put his pursuers off the scent for an hour or two.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER VI. — (Continued.)

       But before he had been a quarter of an hour in the train he bitterly repented the course he had taken. Every minute as his brain grew clearer he saw more plainly that he had done the worst thing possible. However, it was too late to turn back. The harm had been done. The mere flight was sufficient to impress people with the idea of his guilt. It did not matter whether he fled to the next village or to San Francisco. The evil thing was that he had fled at all. And so he resolved to go on to London. His only chance of concealment lay in the vastness of that great city. As fortune would have it, he was not penniless. He would at any rate be able to exist for a few weeks until he could find work. In the meantime the real murderer of Cyrus Walroyd might be discovered. If not — well he scarcely dared think of the future. But it had to be faced, and there, by himself, in the ill-lighted third-class carriage, he faced it. He saw the long years of terror, the awful life of a hunted man, the separation from Myvanwy, the stain on his name. No, God would not permit it. He had not been saved from the horrors of the island for this. The murderer would be found.

       Every stop of the train brought its own terrors. At every station he expected to find policemen waiting for him. He could not decide whether he would offer resistance or go quietly with his captors. But he knew that if he resisted he would probably kill someone and be a murderer in very deed. However, no one interfered with him. He changed at the junction, and the train ran without a stop to a station twelve miles out of London. Here he got out, and for the first time was painfully aware of the fact, that he had no luggage. It would be almost impossible to take a room. Landladies would eye him with suspicion. Then he suddenly bethought him of the Rowton Houses, of which he had often read. They were clean, comfortable, and cheap. He could live in one of them in comparative comfort for several months. He went to a small shop and bought an ill-fitting suit of shoddy. Then he made his way to the Rowton House in Hammersmith, changed his clothes, pawned his old blue suit for half a crown, and set out to find work. That very evening he read of the murder of Cyrus Walroyd in the evening papers. There were long accounts of the dead man and a minute description of himself. There was even a small woodcut of the Plas Tredegar. It was quite evident that the artist had never seen the place.

       For several days particulars appeared in the papers, and it was the sensation of the week. Then it was forgotten, and the police were left to do their silent work without any undesirable advertisement of their plans and actions. Tredegar changed his name to John Edwards, and allowed his beard and moustache to grow.

 
CHAPTER VII.
A DEALER IN GEMS.

       In a dingy back room in one of the dingiest houses in River street, S.E., an old man sat at a table by the window turning over the pages of a huge leather-bound ledger. Outside the house the rain poured down pitilessly, and the grimy panes were streaked and splashed with little rivulets of water. The small yard beneath was slowly forming itself into a miniature lake. Beyond it there was a grimy line of twisted and rusty railings. Beyond that a patch of gravel enclosed with more railings, and then a high wall with a single door in it. By climbing to the top of the house one could look over the wall and see that the river ran past it, and that the ships went to and fro unceasingly.

       The room was no more than twelve foot square. the furniture consisted of two kitchen chairs, a deal table, and a large steel safe. The walls were completely covered with shelves that were littered with every conceivable object from a copper kettle to a Chinese idol. The dust lay thick on everything. Yet many a connoisseur would have been glad to blacken his fingers with it and root out the miscellaneous objects beneath. For among piles of rubbish — such things us sailors bring from foreign parts and sell for a few pence — there was more than one precious thing — an ivory of the sixteenth century, a Sèvres cup and saucer, even perhaps a curiously wrought piece of silver or gold that had fallen through centuries of honour to an ignoble position in this lonely quarter of the globe.

       And as the room was, so was tho man who sat in it with his keen spectacled eyes glued to the dreary book in front of him. Mr. Cantrip's hair was grey and abundant, but his form was as small and withered as a shrivelled apple. His pale waxy face was covered with a two days' growth of beard. His clothes were of the finest broadcloth, but so dirty and ill-kept that they would not have seemed out of place on a tramp. His linen was soiled and frayed, his hands grimy and stained with ink. He was not a pleasant person to look upon, yet there was something in his face that marked him out from the ordinary person of his type, something in the white sloping brow and the quick glance of the eyes that stamped him as a man who was something more, than a mere trader. He, too, seemed part of the rubbish of this world, yet with perchance something in him that God, the Connoisseur, might unearth from the dust and cherish.

       Every now and then he would look up and watch the sleeting arrows of rain. Then he would take a stubbly piece of pencil from behind his ear and tick off an entry in his ledger. Drip! drip! tick! tick! Every drop seemed to him like a unit in the long column he was adding up and checking with the dirty little pencil. At the bottom of some of the pages they run into six figures.

       His calculations were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," he said abstractedly, in a low tone of voice. There was another knock. He turned sharply in his chair. "Come in," he yelled. "Why the devil don't you come in!"

       The door opened and a woman entered She was not more than thirty and of extraordinary loveliness. Her hair was the colour of red gold. Her eyes at first sight seemed to be almost black, but when the light fell upon them it could be seen that they were in reality of a deep violet. Her skin was of that almost deathlike pallor that so often goes with auburn hair, and which Titian has painted in so many of his pictures. And it seemed somehow as though the rose tints of youth and health would have been out of keeping with the stateliness of her beauty. Several magnificent rings sparkled on her fingers, and a single diamond of wonderful size and brilliance glittered like a star at her throat.

       She closed the door behind her, and advanced to where the old man still pored over his ledger. He had looked round at her, and then resumed his work. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and the dusty, coat glittered for a moment with the light of diamonds and emeralds and rubies.

       "Well, father!" she said.

       "One hundred and seventy-nine thousand pounds fourteen shillings and five pence," he replied abruptly. "That is since January. Yet it ought to be five shillings and six pence more. There is an error somewhere," and he turned back the pages of the ledger and frowned.

       "Let me see them," she whispered; "the last ones."

       "They are pretty," the old man replied with a chuckle. Then he drew something from his waistcoat pocket, and without taking his eyes from the ledger, handed a small key to the woman.

       She went over to the safe, end her eyes glittered with excitement. Then she moved the levers of a combination lock.

       "The word for to-day!" she queried.

       "Jones," he replied curtly. "I wish you wouldn't interrupt me. I must find this error before to-night."

       "Is your master so exact then?" she asked.

       "He is most exact," he answered.

       "Won't you tell me the name, father?"

       "Jones," he yelled, turning round on her savagely.

       "The name of your master," she persisted.

       "He has no name," was the angry reply. "You can call him Jones. Perhaps you will see him some day." And he returned to the long columns of figures.

       She set the letters of the lock to the required combination, turned the key, and swung the door open. Then she peered inside and tried to drag out a large black box. But it was too heavy for her, so she crouched down and opened the lid. For more than two minutes she looked at its contents without moving a muscle. Then a glad smile overspread her face, and she began to take out the articles one by one, and examine them. Everything was of gold — clips, bracelets, necklaces, crosses, sword hilts, rings, anklets, ear-rings — all of gold, all beautifully wrought, priceless treasures of some bygone age. She looked at each one lovingly and sighed.

       "To be melted down, I suppose?" she asked.

       "All but six," the old man replied. "They will fetch almost as much as the rest put together. It is a pity I cannot sell them all as they stand. But it would be impossible."

       For a whole hour the two sat in silence, the father still looking for the lost five shillings and sixpence in the great ledger, and the daughter fingering the golden treasures. At last she replaced all the articles, closed the lid of the box, and drew out a small wooden casket front the back of the safe.

       "The key of this?" she said, holding out the cube of dark wood, as if if were some divine gift. The old man snarled impatiently and handed her a tiny key. She opened the box and poured out its contents into her lap.

       The gems full in a casket of rainbow coloured, light. Then she took up a double handful of them and let them trickle slowly through her fingers, eagerly watching each drop of colour as it fell with a tiny click among its companions. Never had she seen so fair a display of jewels. It seemed to her that all the world must have been ransacked for these treasures that dropped one by one into her lap. Diamonds, white, brown, and black, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, white and pink, amethysts, topaz, pink and yellow, beryls, cats' eyes, turquoise — almost every gem of the earth was there, mingled together like shells in some corner of the beach, where the winds and waves have carried them from the deeps of a dozen seas. Again and again she took them from her lap and watched them slide through her while fingers. Then through a rift in the clouds came a yellow shaft of sunlight. It fell on the woman's beautiful face, and crowned her with gold. the jewels flashed out like coloured flames. The whole room seemed to sparkle with their light. Even the old man at the ledger turned round and blinked his eyes. The woman grasped two great handfuls of them, and let them fall in a glittering cascade.

       "Fireworks!" the old man said. "I love fireworks. I always used to go to the Crystal Palace."

       The woman laughed. The simile was hopelessly inept. The bunches of starry light from the bombs and rockets were nothing like this, where every spark cost several pounds. She lifted their again and again, and sent them crashing down into a heap. Then the sunlight died away, and the room was grey with the evening twilight.

       "You can stop that," the old man said harshly. "You will ruin all the pearls. I daresay they're all spoilt now. Put them away."

       "I have not looked at them yet, father," she replied. "I won't let them fall again."

       He grunted and resumed his laborious task. She took up the gems one by one, tenderly now, as though a touch would break them. When she had examined one, she placed it softly in the box. It was getting dark, and they no longer sparkled. But it seemed to her that each glowed with a soft radiance, and that the colouring came deep from the heart of every stone.

       At last every one of them had been returned to the box. She stirred them a few times gently with her finger, and closed the lid with a sigh. Then she rose to her feet, replaced the box in the safe, turned the key, and came back to her father's side. He took the key from her without a word, and she stood there a few moments looking out into the gathering darkness. The rain had stopped, and the patch of sky above the high wall was tinged with a lurid crimson. She moved forward and opening the window, drank in the fresh air. Beyond the wall she could hear the splashing of the waves against the, small wooden jetty, and the cries of men calling from one barge to another, and the hooting of sirens, and the throb of paddles and screws.

       Then she started slightly, and looked intently at the wall. She could have sworn that she had seen the wooden door bend inwards as though someone were trying to push it open. She knew that it was locked. Before she could speak to her father, the door splintered, broke in half, and fell in two pieces on to the gravel. Then the figure of a man appeared against the square patch of river beyond. He was in the shadow of the wall, and she could not see his face, but she could see that he was tall and broad-shouldered. The water ran down in streams from his clothes, and formed little pools at his feet. He paused for a second or two, and glanced swiftly round. It was Emrys Tredegar. His pursuers were behind him. He had swam the river, and had walked into a trap. On both sides of him were high blank walls. In front of him the back of a dingy house with a man and woman watching from the ground floor window. He looked back and saw a boat coming swiftly across the water. As a matter of fact it merely carried three men returning to their ship on this side of the river. But he did not know that, nor did he know that his pursuers had lost the trail and were even then hunting the wharves half a mile nearer the sea. He saw the necessity for instant action, and in a few seconds he had decided what to do. He advanced to the spiked railings, vaulted over them with one hand, and moved towards the window.

       As he advanced, the old man saw the powerful build, the dripping clothes, and the haggard face of his visitor, and quickly opening the drawer, laid his hand on the butt of a revolver. The woman drew back a little, and a frightened look crossed her face. Tredegar came up to the window.

       "What do you want?" the old man queried sharply, grasping the revolver more tightly in his hand.

       "I have fallen into the river," Tredegar answered. "I am wet and exhausted. May I come in and wait while my clothes are being dried? I am miles from home."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER VII. — (Continued.)

       "You certainly cannot come in," the old man answered. "Why have you come here? Why did you break in my door? Why are you standing there? Why don't you go?" and his voice rose almost to a shriek. Tredegar did not move, but he gazed appealingly at the woman's beautiful face which he could just see through the gathering darkness. She lowered her eyes and flushed. Then she raised them and for a few seconds looked at the young man admiringly. Rarely indeed had she seen so fine a specimen of manhood. Even the ill-fitting clothes could not conceal the strength and symmetry of his limbs. His voice, too, was the voice of a gentleman, and was strangely out of keeping with his rough face and cheap attire. She began to be interested.

       "Father," she whispered. "He's shivering, with cold. We might let him in."

       "No," he cried, "no. Let him go away," and then in a lower voice, "You must be mad. Remember what we have got in the house."

       "I will pay you well." Tredegar said. "But I must come in," and he moved towards the back door, prepared to break it open if necessary.

       "Lock it," the old man screamed. Then he took out his revolver and levelled it at Tredegar's head with a shaking hand. The latter saw the light on the barrel and stopped. Then he glanced back at the patch of water which showed through the broken door. There was no sign of his pursuers. He almost made up his mind to retire. But he was in a trap. There was no way out of it, save through the house, or by the river. He laughed.

       "Put that away," he said. "I won't harm you. I can't get out of here except by the way I came, and I don't fancy that. May I pass through the house." There was the sound of oars close to the wharf, he turned round with a look of terror, and then laid his hand on the handle of the door.

       "I shall let him in," the woman said decisively, and leaving the room, she descended a few steps and unlocked the back door.

       "Come in," she said; "I am not afraid of you."

       "Thank you," he replied simply. "I know all this is very unusual, but I am in a great difficulty. I will not stay. I must run. I am terribly cold," and his teeth chattered as he spoke.

       "Yes, you shall stay," she said, quietly; "at any rate until your clothes are dried. Come here." She took a candle from a cupboard, and lighting it, led the way into the kitchen, where a fire blazed in the grate. As they entered they heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. The woman smiled. She knew that her father had locked himself in.

       "If you will wait, here." she said, "I will get you a change of clothes. I have some of my — we have some upstairs. They will fit you, I think. They belonged to a big man," and she looked admiringly at the stalwart figure before her, as she turned to go.

       When Tredegar was left to himself, he sat down on a chair, and shivered. The water still trickled front his clothes to the floor, he felt faint and exhausted, and a strange cold feeling began to creep through his limbs. He palled himself together, and stamped his feet, to keep himself warm. Then he moved closer to the roaring fire, and crouched over the blaze. Every now and then he would look back over his shoulder and listen.

       He had changed much during the past three weeks in London. His eyes had a nervous, hunted look. His clothes were shabby and dirty, and his face was covered with a bristly beard and moustache. He did not look at all a pleasant customer to have in a house that contained nearly £150,000 worth of gold and jewellery.

       In a few minutes Miss Cantrip returned with a complete outfit, and leaving the room, locked the door behind her. Tredegar smiled and looked at himself in a piece of cracked glass on the wall. He could hardly blame a woman for taking those precautions. He certainly looked as though he were capable of making off with the clothes. But a minute later the door was unlocked and the old man entered, closing it behind him. His right hand was in his pocket.

       "This is very good of you," Tredegar said. "I am really ashamed to give you and your — your daughter so much trouble."

       Mr. Cantrip did not answer, but seated himself in a chair and inspected the young man critically. The latter began to undress wearily, and hang his clothes in front of the fire. He put down the old man as a madman, and paid no more attention to him.

       As the young man bared the magnificent muscles of his arms, Cantrip gazed at him approvingly and nodded his head.

       "Your name?" he asked abruptly.

       "Edward Edwards."

       "Welsh?"

       "From Monmouthshire — Newport."

       "Profession?"

       "A sailor."

       "Out of work?"

       "Yes."

       The old man seemed to be turning over something in his mind.

       "A rogue?" he said! abruptly. "A vagabond, eh? Perhaps a criminal?"

       "Sir!" said Tredegar, in so menacing a tone that the old man started and moved his hand a little out of his pocket.

       "No offence — no offence, Mr. — Edwards. But you look a rough lot, don't you? I should not care for you to hit me. Ever killed anyone, eh?"

       It was now Tredegar's turn to start, but he concealed his agitation with a nervous laugh.

       "Not that I know of," he replied.

       "You could though, eh? Just one blow, eh? So!" and he thrust out his skinny little hand pugnaciously.

       Again Tredegar laughed.

       Then he finished dressing, and sank wearily into a chair. His brain spun round and round, and a hundred pains shot through his aching limbs. He grasped the seat of the chair for support. There was a knock at the door. The old man opened it, and his daughter came in. She had a steaming glass of hot whisky and water in one hand, and in the other a plate with a huge piece of cake on it. She handed both to Tredegar, who took them with trembling hands.

       "This is too good of you," he murmured. "It is just the thing. Oh, I am so cold."

       He took a long gulp of the steaming drink, and ate the cake. He was ravenous, for he had eaten no food since the night before, but he devoured it slowly lest the others should notice his hunger. Before he had finished, the old man rose and left the room.

       Miss Cantrip then seated herself in a chair on the other side of the fireplace, and, producing a gold case, offered Tredegar a cigarette. She lit one herself, and began to chat to him pleasantly. Her woman's curiosity was roused, and she wanted to find out who this man was — this young fellow with the rough face and the gentle voice. But he only answered her in monosyllables, and, as she talked, his face grew whiter and whiter, and his hands grasped the chair like a vice. He was suffering agony, and it seemed to him the fires of hell were running through his veins in place of blood. The woman watched him with pity on her face.

       Then suddenly he began to speak to her in a torrent of words, in long, incoherent sentences about scenes and places that she knew, nothing of. About desert islands, and shipwreck, and starvation, and police, and murder — and through all she caught the oft-repeated name of a woman. She rose to her feet to call her father, and, as she did so, the great figure swayed, the arms of the chair snapped like twigs, and Tredegar fell forward senseless to the floor.

 
CHAPTER VIII.
THE UNPAID DEBT.

       When Tredegar came to his senses he found himself in a small, plainly-furnished room. The sunlight streamed through the window and showed up all the shabby spots in the carpet and wall-paper. Miss Cantrip was sitting by his side with a medicine-glass in her hand. At the foot of the bed stood a tall, keen-faced man with a straggly grey moustache. Tredegar regarded them both with an air of bewilderment, and then, moving his arm a little, gave a sharp cry of pain, and lay still.

       "Where am I?" he murmured, faintly. "What is the matter?"

       "Rheumatic fever," said the man at the foot of the bed. "You will be all right. I never saw a more magnificent frame to a man. But you will find it painful. This lady has kindly consented to nurse you. I wanted to send you to a hospital. She will probably be sorry before your illness is over."

       "This lady?" Tredegar repeated, softly. "This lady? Ah, yes, I remember now. But, I must leave here at once. Can't I go to a hospital?"

       "No," the doctor answered, decidedly. "You cannot be moved now. You might have been taken there ten hours ago, but I should not care to risk it now, and you must not talk. You have been delirious."

       "Delirious?" Tredegar murmured. "Then I have talked a great deal?" And a look of apprehension crossed his face. Probably the whole story of his life was now known to these two people. He glanced uneasily at Miss Cantrip, and she smiled.

       "You have talked a lot of nonsense," she answered. "You quite frightened me last night. But when the doctor did come, you relapsed into silence."

       Tredegar gave a sigh of relief. At any rate, the doctor had not heard much. He closed his eyes. The pain in his limbs was terrible. He did not utter a sound. Only his white face and the little stream of blood trickling down from the lip he had bitten in his pain showed the agony he suffered.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       For five long weeks Tredegar lay in the little room. Hour after hour had he counted the little brown roses on the faded wall-paper, and traced out the cracks on the ceiling, and located every stain and tear in the carpet, till the whole place had become a map to him, with its own little islands and rivers and mountains and seas. Hour after hour he ran through the history of this last year, and realised all the horrors of the past and the loneliness of the future that lay before him. Hour after hour he saw the face of Myvanwy, and it was with him even in his dreams — a white, tear-stained face with eyes fixed on the sea, waiting for the lover that could not come — a lover that was more lost than if he had been dead. He would never speak to Myvanwy again. He might see her. It would be possible to slink down to Garth, and catch a glimpse of her face; but it would be impossible to speak to her. The single foolish act of a drug-maddened brain had set a gulf between them. It would never be bridged until the other man was found — the real murderer of Cyrus Walroyd.

       And yet through all these weary days his only moments of happiness came from the kindly presence of another woman. Miss Cantrip had nursed him through his long illness with such devotion and patience and skill that he was almost oppressed by the burden of gratitude she had laid upon him. He often wondered how he could ever repay the debt, he also wondered why this woman had taken pity on a perfect stranger, and had almost worn herself out with watching by his bedside and ministering to his every want. At best he put it down to the natural tenderness of her womanly nature, and tried his best to think that his loneliness and helplessness had moved her heart to pity.

       But as the pain in his limbs died out and the fever in his body abated his brain grew more clear and capable of observation. It was then that, he first learnt the terrible truth. He read it in her eyes, in the tenderness of every action, in the way she moved, in the inflections of her voice, even in the sad little stories she told him of her lonely life, even, too, in the way she laid bare her faults to him. In all these the truth was made manifest to him, and he shuddered when he thought upon it. This woman loved him, and she would expect her reward. And it was impossible that he could return her love.

       He did what he thought the best thing under the circumstances. He spoke often to her of the girl he loved. He did this with a clear honesty of purpose, but felt all the time that he was nothing better than a brute. It was agony to him to speak of Myvanwy, but he wished the other woman to realise the truth. She listened patiently, and oven took an apparent interest in his conversation. He laboriously explained that he could never marry the girl he loved, but that he would be true to her to the day of his death. Then Miss Cantrip would move away from the bedside, and do some little kindly act for him that would sting him to the quick. As a matter of fact he was, in his own clumsy way, doing the worst thing possible. He did not know the character or this beautiful woman. He saw nothing of its passionate strength. He did not even imagine that every word he spoke about Myvanwy strengthened her own resolution to win his love. It was inevitable that a crisis would come soon.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER VIII. — Continued.

       It came one sunny evening in July. Tredegar was convalescent. He had been moved into a small sitting-room on the same floor, and was sitting in a chair by the open window. His face was worn and thin, and his great body so shrunken that his clothes hung on his limbs, like garments on a scarecrow. His beard and moustache had now grown to a respectable length, and he was more pleasant to look upon than when he had first entered the house. He was weak from his long illness, and so miserable that he wished he had never recovered from it. During the last low days an additional terror had come upon him. He had begun to mistrust his own strength of purpose. The strange beauty of this woman, the love in her eyes, the heavy debt he owed her, their intimacy as nurse and invalid, were all bringing terrible pressure upon the constancy of his love. On this particular evening he found himself wondering whether it was not his duty to marry her, and whether Myvanwy would not forgive him under the unusual circumstances, four half an hour he reasoned out the whole situation with relentless sophistry. Then his face suddenly crimsoned with shame, and he burst into tears.

       It was thus that Miss Cantrip found him when she entered the room. He was sobbing like a child, and his face was buried in his hands. He did not hear the sound or her footsteps as she moved silently across to his side.

       Then all the pity of her woman's heart went out to this strong man so enfeebled by sickness. She stooped and kissed the great lean hands that were wet with tears. She cared nothing for the shame of the thing. She only saw that the man she loved was in distress.

       He started as though he had been stung and flung his hands from his face with such violence that one of them caught her on the cheek. Then he half rose from his seat and stared at her with horror. What had he done? He had struck her — the woman who had nursed him as tenderly as a sister or a wife might have done. And she? She was cowering away from him, and her face was white and cold as death. He opened his lips to speak, but no words came. What could be said after such an act as this?

       He sank back into his seat and gasped for breath. The excitement had been too great a strain on his weak nerves, his hands trembled as he clutched the arms of the chair, and he closed his eyes with a look of pain.

       In an instant the hard look died from the woman's face, and moving swiftly to his side she knelt down and took one of his hands in hers. This time he did not move, and the hand lay cold and quivering in the warm clasp of her fingers.

       "Forgive me," she said gently; "I was to blame. I know it was an accident!" and she looked pleadingly into his face.

       He faintly shook his head, and opening his eyes, gazed steadily at the beautiful woman by his side. She turned away, and clasped his hand a little more tightly as though she were afraid of losing him by the utterance of a single word.

       "Miss Cantrip," he said, after a long pause. "I owe you more than I can ever possibly repay, and I owe you this much — that I will not lie to you. It was no accident. I did not mean to strike you. I am not so vile a cur as that. But the movement was dictated by my heart. It was wrung from me in a moment of agony, but it was true. I was afraid — afraid of myself — afraid of you, dear friend."

       The woman turned her head and looked passionately into his eyes. Her white face and auburn hair were strangely beautiful in the golden light that came up from the west.

       Then she suddenly bent down and pressed her lips to his hand in a long, ardent kiss. He did not stir, but he dared not look up. Even then his mind was trembling in the balance. A look of despair crossed her face. She resolved to cast the last die — to sink to the lowest depths of humiliation. She bent over him till her face was no more than a foot from his.

       "Edward," she whispered, "I love you! There is shame in the words, but I glory in the shame! I love you!"

       For one moment he looked into her burning eyes. Her face drew nearer to his, and then — he kissed her, and the next moment her arms were about his neck, and she was sobbing om his breast. He lay cold and still in her embrace. He did not kiss her again. The moment's passion laid died away. Only the bitter shame of it remained. Then she raised her head and looked into his white, ghastly face and read the truth. Slowly she took her arms from his neck and rose to her feet. She wished that he had struck her. A blow would have been easier to bear than this.

       "Cynthia," he said, in a low, strained voice, "you must forget! We must both forget."

       It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name, but she barely noticed the circumstance.

       "You are a coward!" she said, calmly. "You dare not love! What is this other woman to you? You can never marry her, you have said it yourself. She will not wait for you."

       "She will wait for me!" he replied; and then a furious passion seized him. "Oh, why have you been so cruel to me? I owe you so much! You are so beautiful! I would give you everything — but this!"

       "I do not want to buy your love with kindness!" she answered, passionately. "I am not so low as that! I can make you love me! I will wait till you are strong and your own self. I have taken a mean advantage of you. I own it; but what will a woman not do when she loves! You shall love me, and you shall forget this other woman. She will not wait for you!"

       "She once thought me dead," he answered, "and still she waited for me. She will wait now. And I — and I will always wait for her!"

       The woman's face flushed with anger and shame. Then it grew very hard and cold, and she laughed bitterly.

       "Will she wait?" she cried in a mocking voice. "Will she wait? Do you think that she will wait for you, Mr. Emrys Tredegar?"

       She spoke the last three words slowly and incisively as though each word were a stab. He looked at her in silence. Yet, strange to say, the uppermost thought in his mind was not the danger of being at the mercy of a woman he had repulsed, but that this woman who knew all had loved him in spite of what she knew.

       "Yes, Emrys," she continued, more gently, "I have known everything since the day after you came here. I was with you in your delirium. I caught a chance word, and I took care that no one else should listen to your ravings; the next day I bought a back copy of a paper containing your photograph and an account of the murder of Cyrus Walroyd. Then I knew the truth, and it was for that reason that I kept you here, where no one would be likely to seek you. If you had gone to a hospital you might have been moved on to a gaol."

       Still he did not speak. His heart, was too full for words; the burden of his debt lay still more heavy on his life. And he could pay nothing — nothing.

       "You are in my power, Emrys," she continued, "and they say hell has no fury like a woman scorned."

       "I was not thinking of that," he said at last, "I was only thinking of all you had done for me. You are a noble woman, Cynthia, and for your sake, I must leave here at once." He tried to rise from his chair, but finding he was too weak to stand without the support of her arm, he fell back into his seat.

       "I have all a woman's weakness," she replied sadly, "her vanity, her passion, her pride. You must marry me. I am rich, and we can go abroad and start a new life. You can never marry Myvanwy Morgan."

       He looked her straight in the eyes.

       "You do not believe me guilty?" he said, in a low voice. "I am innocent — and my innocence will be proved! I shall wait."

       "I am sure you are innocent!" she cried, passionately. "But I, too, can wait, Emrys, and I shall not wait in vain. I hold all the cards in my hand. Let this woman play against me, and she will see them."

       She swept out or the room without another look at him, and he lay back in his chair and tried to think quietly of all he had learnt. Only one thought came clearly to his mind — that he must look once more on the pure, sweet face of Myvanwy Morgan, and escape from the woman who had done more for him than he could ever repay.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       A fortnight afterwards he had gained a considerable amount of strength, and had already been out nearly a dozen times, He was chafing to leave, yet know not how to manage it with kindness and courtesy. Miss Cantrip had never again referred to what had passed between them. She attended to him with consistent care and sweetness, but never by word or look betrayed the love that burnt so fiercely within her. Yet he longed for the salt air and the shores of Cardigan Bay, and the little village stretching along by the sea.

       On this particular afternoon he was idly turning over a heap of old papers, when suddenly he saw a flaming headline in one of those pink evening productions that do so much to add to the horrors of life.

       "Terrible murder in Cardiganshire!"

       For a moment his blood ran cold, and he dared not read the column beneath. Was it possible that Cynthia Cantrip had purposely left this lying about?

       Then he glanced quickly at the date and gave a sigh of relief. It was dated ten days previously. Then, as he read, he trembled with excitement, for the paragraph told in lurid language how another man, David James, had been murdered in the district of Garth. He had been found dead in the great bog of Gogerddan, literally crushed to death. The paper spared nothing of realism, and described the broken back and limp neck, and the blood and torn clothing with all the fullest details. It also referred to the murder of Cyrus Walroyd, and kindly pointed out that the two murders were probably the work of one hand, and that Emrys Tredegar had developed a homicidal mania, and must be hunted down like a wild boast. Tredegar smiled. Here at last was a ray of hope. He could, at any rate, prove that he had not committed this last murder.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER VIII. — (Continued.)

       That very night he rose quickly from his bed and stole out of the house. He left nothing behind him but a small packet addressed to Miss Cantrip. It contained the half of the gold disc, the only thing of value he possessed in the world, and a letter which ran as follows:—

       "My Dear Friend, — I leave you this, not for its value, but as a memento of my gratitude. No money can repay you for what you have done, though some day I shall hope to recompense your father for all the expense he has been put to on my account. For yourself, I will repay you all some day, nor can I marry with a clear conscience till I have repaid you all. In what way, God will point out to me. But I will repay you, Cynthia — I will! I swear it! Good-bye, dear friend."

       In the morning Cynthia Cantrip opened the package, and read the letter with a face that might have been cut out of marble, so cold and still were its features. Then she glanced at the gold disc, and stepped forward to the open window to throw it far over the wall into the river beyond. But before she readied the casement she stopped and examined the few links of chain still hanging to the semi-circle of gold. Then she suddenly gave a cry of horror, and fell in a dead faint to the floor.

       Three hours later four detectives were on the track of Emrys Tredegar.

 
CHAPTER IX.
HOW TREDEGAR SAID GOOD-BYE.

       Towards the dawn of a hot day in August Emrys Tredegar stood on the brow of Bryn Mawr, a high mountain overlooking the estuary of the Llyn. Below him the opening sweep of the river and the long marshes on the far side of it lay grey in the twilight. The air was full of the music of birds and the sounds of life awaking to another day. In the distance he could hear the harsh cries of a shepherd calling to his dog. Behind him, over the wide ranges of hills, lay a bar of pale yellow, the first faint flush of sunrise.

       He sat down on a block of granite and ate a piece of dry bread with evident relish. He drunk deeply of a small stream which ran down the mountain side, and afterwards bathed his face and hands in the running water. Then he rose to his feet and looked back along the narrow sheep track by which he had travelled.

       He was dressed in a blouse and overalls of blue linen. Over his shoulder hung two long strings of onions such as the Breton peasants hawk along the shores of Wales. It is a strange irony of fate that in the land of the leek the inhabitants are chiefly dependent on France for their onions.

       The disguise had one advantage, for the wandering life of these onion-sellers would account for any irregularity of movement on his, part. They came and went when they would, and they stayed as long as they pleased in a place, and no one questioned them. At first sight it might appear that the language would have presented a difficulty. But it is well known in Wales that these peasants of Brittany can make themselves understood in their own language by the people who know no tongue but Welsh.

       For ten days Emrys Tredegar had been travelling from London on foot, and the fresh air and the exercise had brought back the glow of health to his face. At first he had travelled carelessly, but now, as he neared his old home, he neglected no precaution. All that night he had toiled up and down the long slopes of hills till he had reached the summit of Bryn Mawr. During the day to come he proposed to be concealed in the woods of Llynglas.

       As the dawn grew brighter in the east, and the sky began to be flushed with crimson, he made his way down the mountain to a point where the estuary was spanned by a long wooden railway bridge, built on piles. He crossed this, walking between the metals, and before the full light of day burst upon mountain and marsh and sea, he was mounting the wooden slopes of the hills above Trethol.

       He encountered no one beyond two labourers, who nodded him a surly good-morning. By nine o'clock he had found a small grassy dell by the banks of a waterfall, in the thickest part of the woods, and there he extended his great limbs on the smooth, green turf and bracken, and fell fast asleep.

       When he awoke it was about four p.m. It was a hot, still day, and the shade of the trees and the sound of the little cascade were grateful to him. He ate another large piece of bread, this time with the addition of a lump of cheese. Then he took out a clay pipe from his pocket, and collecting some small scraps of tobacco from the folds of a piece of paper, smoked quietly for twenty minutes. Then he made his way through the woods till he reached a point which overhung the house of Myvanwy Morgan. By climbing a tall pine tree he could see the roof and chimneys far below, and beneath them the wide green lawns stretching to the boundary walls. And then by the wall he saw a single figure in black — motionless, looking towards the sea. He trembled so violently that he nearly lost his hold on the branch. He could not mistake tho figure oven at that distance. It was Myvanwy.

       He gazed at her for several minutes, till she turned round and walked slowly back into the house. Then he descended the tree, and sitting down on the trunk of a fallen pine, rapidly ran over the various wild schemes he had already formulated. He knew he must obtain an interview with her. Yet no plan seemed safe. Finally he resolved to leave it to chance. He put his hand into his trousers pocket, and, pulling out some silver, counted it carefully, It amounted to 12s. 6d. in all. He could live on that for more than a week, and bide his time till an opportunity offered itself. Then he would leave England, till time revealed the secret of Cyrus Walroyd's death.

       When the sun had fallen below the horizon of the sea, he crept stealthily down the hill through the dark pines till he reached a point below the grounds of the house. Then he turned to the left, and moving cautiously along the wood, waited close to the edge, where he could see the boundary wall.

       "Perhaps," he thought to himself, "she will come here again after dinner. Perchance she will be alone."

       He waited an hour. The moonlight fell full on the wall above him, so that he could see everything. He himself was concealed in the darkest shallow.

       At last he heard the faint sounds of footsteps on the gravel walk, and then the moonlight fell on the dark dress and white face of a woman! It was Myvanwy! He had not waited in vain. He could see her face clearly. It was pale and haggard. Her hands gripped the stone ledge of the wall, as she gazed wearily seawards. A single ring flashed on her finger. He knew it well. He had given it to her before he had left for Peru. Then he roused himself. There was no time to be lost.

       "Myvanwy!" he said, almost in a whisper — for he knew not who else might be near. "Myvanwy!"

       She started. In the silence of that still summer's night the sound had come faintly to her, like the cry of some ghost. She leant over the wall and peered into the dark.

       "Myvanwy!" he said again. "Do not be frightened! It is I, Emrys! Are you alone?"

       She swayed as though she would have fallen. Then she recovered herself, and looking behind her across the lawn, nodded her head.

       He came out of the darkness into the moonlight and stood beneath the wall, and, catching hold of her hands, he kissed them forvently.

       "Emrys!" she cried, in a low voice, of horror. "Emrys!"

       And then wrenching her hands from his she bowed her head on her arms and gave a great sob of pain.

       "My darling!" he murmured. "You do not believe me guilty? I am innocent. You know I am innocent!"

       She raised her tear-stained face and looked at him.

       "I know you are innocent," she said, slowly. "But why are you here, Emrys? You are in danger! For God's sake, go!"

       "I have come to see you, Myvanwy," he answered. "I could not go longer without seeing you. I have not dared to write. You do not know how I have longed to see you. I have also come to say good-bye! I must leave England, in a few days — perhaps for ever!"

       "For ever," she repeated mechanically.

       "Till the murderer of Cyrus Walroyd has been discovered — and that may be never!"

       "Oh, if I had not written that letter," she cried, in piteous tones. "It was on that that the coroner's jury brought, in a verdict of guilty. Without it there would have been no motive."

       "I read the full account of the inquest," he said. "The door was locked. Both Cyrus Walroyd and the murderer must have entered by the window. There were no marks outside, for there is only stone paving below. But it does not matter. I stand condemned in the eyes of the world. And I must leave England — or else —–"

       "Or else what?"

       "I must face my trial, and trust, to my innocence being proved."

       "No, no!" she cried. "Anything, but that — anything but that!"

       "Then it is 'good-bye,' Myvanwy."

       "I will come with you, Emrys," she said, hurriedly. "I cannot lose you again now you have been brought back to me from death! I will come with you. I will meet you somewhere. We can be married, and start a new life abroad."

       His lips twitched nervously. Less than a fortnight ago those very words had been spoken by a woman he did not love. Then they had seemed a desecration of love. Here in the moonlight they seemed the sweetest words ever uttered by a woman's lips. Yet, like the other's, they offered that which he knew he could not take. For a minute he stood in hesitation. the temptation was almost irresistible. But he conquered his own desires.

       "No, Myvanwy," he said. "No, my dearest sweetheart, It is impossible! I cannot bind you to a hunted man — to a pauper! I do not profess to be good, but I am not so bad as that. I will wait! Perhaps in a year or two, when I have settled, when I have made money to keep you in comfort, when I am — — safe — perhaps then; but, what ever happens, I am always your lover."

       At that moment a door opened in the house, and a broad bar of light streamed across the lawn. A dark figure was silhouetted against tho opening. Myvanwy looked round.

       "My father," she said. "Good-bye, Emrys!"

       She bent her head down, and he kissed her passionately on the lips. He longed to be by her side and take her in his arms, but he did not dare show himself in the moonlight. Yet all his soul went out to her in that one kiss, and that single short good-bye.

       "Myvanwy!" cried a harsh voice. "Is that you out there?"

       "Yes, father," she answered; and then in a whisper, "Good-bye, my dear lover."

       "Good-bye!" he said, hoarsely, "Good-bye, my darling!"

       Then, wringing her hand for a moment, he stole back into the shadow of the trees. Myvanwy stood still by the wall, and her father came across the lawn to her side. He did not speak, but looked out across the marsh. Several lights were moving to and fro on its broad expanse of misty grey, and from the distance came the voices of men shouting to one another.

       "They are hunting!" he said, grimly. "You have no business to be here, Myvanwy I have told you not to go out after nightfall. If this madman came across you he would tear you in pieces."

       "What madman, father?" she said wearily.

       "This Emrys Tredegar," he replied, "the man who killed Cyrus Walroyd and David James."

       "You do not suppose that Emrys killed David James?" she asked, in a low voice. "Why should he kill David James?"

       "He has gone mad, I suppose," Mr. Morgan answered. "His sufferings after the shipwreck must have affected his brain. After the murder of Cyrus Walroyd it must have given way altogether. He has returned to. this neighbourhood, and no one but you is fool enough to stay out alone after dark. He might even now be in this very wood beneath your feet."

       Myvanwy turned her eyes towards the wood and smiled, and from the darkness a pair of keen eyes watched her face.

       "Emrys Tredegar, she said, abruptly. "is not nearly so mad as those who are hunting him! And with these words she turned sharply on her heel and went indoors."

       Mr. Morgan lit a cigar and glanced a little nervously at the wood. Then he patted something heavy in the, pocket of his dinner-jacket — a something that was not usually to be found in a man's dress-clothes — and smiled grimly. Then he listened. There was the sound of a horse's hoofs on the drive, and the. rider was riding fast. A minute later there was a ring at the bell, a few words with a servant, and then a tall figure strode across the lawn. It was John Walroyd.

       "Mr. Morgan," he said, hastily, "there has been another murder — young Evans of Brynboul. He was a stalwart fellow; but he has been simply broken to pieces. One of his arms is almost torn off his body. I have come up to warn you. Are you armed? Will you join us? We are warm on the scent the man has boon seen. He only left his victim as half a dozen others came up. They saw he was of huge stature, and dressed in brown clothes. They swear that it was the figure of Emrys Tredegar."

       "Where did it happen?"

       "On the marsh. Young Evans was out with two dozen of us beating up the places to find the man. We have done it every night now since David James was killed. He must have come right on the fellow. I must go! I am wanted. Will you come with us?"

       "I must look after my daughter," the old man answered. "Will you have a drop of anything before you leave?"

       "Thanks," Walroyd answered.

       They disappeared rapidly into the house, and a few minutes later a horse came thundering down tho drive.

       Emrys Tredegar had heard everything from the shadow of the wood, and as the men vanished he crept silently down the slope through the trees towards the marsh. For the moment he had forgotten that he was the hunted, and was longing to join the hunters. For he saw now that something was abroad — something mighty and terrible — something worth hunting. And the death or capture of the prey would give him his freedom.

 
CHAPTER X.
WHAT TREDEGAR SAW IN THE
WOODS.

       The bog of Gogerddan was no easy place for a man to walk on after the sun had set. For the most part it was dry and firm in the summer, but here and there were a few treacherous spots where a man might sink in up to his waist, or even further. The chief obstacles, however, to a journey across it were the innumerable dykes which traversed it in every direction, and to which it owed its comparative solidity. Some of these were not more than three feet in width, but others were quite eight feet from bank to bank, and even in the daytime were not pleasant things to jump from a rough and yielding take-off.

       At night even the smallest was a pitfall. The water in them was brown and evil-smelling. Its depth varied with the state of the tide in the estuary, but at the bottom lay a consistent four feet of soft, liquid peat, and woe betide the unfortunate man who fell heavily into its treacherous slime. A single path of hard, firm stone, and equipped with plank bridges ran across the southern side of the bog from mountain to sea. But Tredegar was two miles front this, and, in any case, it was not the route for a man who wished to escape observation. It was, however, a fairly light night, though a faint mist had risen in the sky and somewhat dimmed the brilliance of the moon.

       Tredegar slipped quietly out of the wood. He made his way with difficulty through a small forest of bulrushes, sinking up to his ankles in water. When he had struggled through this, he emerged cautiously on the open bog, and felt the coarse, hard heather tufts beneath his feet. He listened attentively, and heard voices in the distance. A few lights were moving to and fro about half a mile away. Then he heard the sound of a gun or rifle. He thanked his lucky stars he was not one of the search-party, they had come out to shoot something, and the veriest tyro would he sure to try and get in a shot somehow. Some would blaze away at long ridges of grass, at stray sheep, at hillocks of peat. Others, more discerning, but more dangerous, would mark down their fellows, and there would be accidents. Tredegar knew the spirit of an expedition of this sort undertaken by simple country folk — the eagerness born of fear, the desire for glory, the recklessness of war without its discipline.

       He made his way in a straight line for Garth. He had no very clear idea in his mind what he was going to do. At first he thought of joining the main force. He could scarcely be taken for the murderer at close quarters. The latter, so Walroyd had said, had been clothed in brown. He was unmistakably dressed in blue, and carried his two strings of onions. But on second thoughts he concluded that the risk was a foolish one, even in the darkness, and even though everyone was too excited to note the presence of a stranger. He wished to be in the hunt himself, but he decided to hunt alone. At least, he had one advantage over the others. He had slept most of the day, and was prepared to stay awake, all the night. He hurriedly sketched out a plan of action. He would hunt till daybreak on the bog and in the woods on the far side of it. There was a faint chance of his meeting the murderer; and, if not — well, hr had not wasted his time. He was bound to keep moving. Even an August night was not good for a man who had just recovered from rheumatic fever. With the dawn he would push a little further south and sleep. After that he would make his way south till he reached Cardiff. From there he would work his passage out to some remote land and start a new life with such brains and muscles as God had given him.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER X. — (Continued.)

       He steered as straight a course as he could for the dark woods above the Plas Tredegar on the southern hills. When he was about half a mile away from Llynglas the loneliness of the bog began to weigh on his nerves. He looked back, and still saw a light twinkling among the trees. It was like some beacon on a coast. The Gogorddan itself was like the sea — grey and trackless in the moonlight. Nothing moved on its surface save the little cluster of lights in the distance. It was evident that the hunters were keeping close together. If they had not been armed he would have liked to fling himself among them, knock one or two of them over, and leave them in a state of still further terror.

       He pursued his way cautiously. His keen eyes searched the stretch of heather on all sides of him, but he saw nothing of interest. Now and then a plover would got up from under his feet and go flapping away into the darkness. Occasionally there would be a tiny splash in the water of one of the dykes as a rat slipped off the edge and swam hurriedly out of his path. But he found no trace of what he sought.

       At last, however, he came to a place where the heather was up rooted and the ground was torn, and a big patch of reed gross was trampled flat to the earth. He examined it carefully, and saw that the grass was spotted with something that glistened in the moonlight. He put down his hand and pulled up a few blades. They were wet with blood. He shuddered. This was the very place where young Evans of Brynboul had met his death. Just beyond lay the Great Dyke, fourteen feel, across, and part of its bank was torn away.

       Fifty yards away on the other side of the dyke were four stacks of peat, each of them about eight feet high. He glanced sharply at them, and then suddenly dropped flat on his face. A head had peered out from the side nearest to him.

       "Who are you?" cried a voice in Welsh, and looking up, he saw the moonlight on the barrel of a rifle.

       He rose to his feet and laughed.

       "I thought you were what I am after," he replied, in the same language. "I'm Williams, of Temawr." He gave the name of a man who somewhat resembled him in height and build, and who lived up in the mountains "Who are you?"

       "John Rhys and David Evans and James Rhys," the voice answered. "Have you a gun?"

       "No."

       "Would you like to come with us?"

       "I can do well enough by myself," he answered. "I should only like to meet him."

       "He'd do for you!" said another voice.

       Tredegar laughed.

       "Do you remember when I threw those four soldiers out of a public-house in Aberavon?" he said, well remembering this to have been the greatest feat of Williams's life.

       "Aye; but you never threw Emrys Tredegar out of anywhere, I'll wager! And now he has the devil in him. You'd better come with, us."

       "No, thank you: I don't like guns. Might get shot. I've only just heard of this in Trethol. I've come from there and I'm going right across and round' by the hills."

       "We stay here Tredegar may return. He would think this the least likely place for anyone to look for him. He will find it a warm spot if he does come back." And the speaker chuckled at his own wit.

       "Good night!" said Tredegar; and moved on down the side of the big dyke.

       "Good night!" they shouted.

       Tredegar congratulated himself on a lucky escape, he knew that Williams of Temawr was little known in Garth — a surly fellow who rarely came down from his mountain farm save to drink himself mad once a month.

       He pursued his way to the other side of the bog without encountering, another soul, and was glad once more to see the trees and the hills, and feel meadow grass under his feet. As his crossed the path, however, he heard the sound of voices in the distance, and saw the faint twinkle of a light. He moved quickly into the shadow of some stunted oaks, and waited. In ten minutes' time he saw a small body of men moving slowly along towards Garth.

       They apparently carried something that was long and heavy. As they passed, he saw that it was a gate, and on it there was something covered with a white sheet. In the moonlight it looked like the body of a man. He drew in his breath sharply. There were dark stains upon the sheet.

       The little procession passed out of sight. Tredegar paused for a few minutes in the shadow of the trees. For a moment he had forgotten his own troubles, and his mind was with the old blind woman at the Brynboul Farm. He pictured her sitting up for the return of her only son.

       "Thank God," he said to himself, "they can only tell her that he is dead. She will not see him."

       Then suddenly his blood boiled with fury. If he could but meet this man — if he could but — track him down, all these men should be avenged. If he could but lay the dead body of the real murderer at the feet of these fools, he himself would be a free man. He resolved to find out something that night.

       He moved rapidly but quietly through the wood till he reached a point where the ground began to ascend. Here he sat down for five minutes and munched some bread and cheese. When he had finished he began to climb up the steep hill before him. Here, in the shadow of the wood, all was dark. Only a faint glimmer of light showed through the branches overhead. None of it reached the ground at his feet. For one brief moment he thought of the forests in the island. Then he smiled. Here, at least, he was within reach of his fellow-creatures. Then the smile died from his face, and he realised that he was as much alone as he had ever been.

       Of all the woods in the neighbourhood of Garth, this was the most, lonely. It consisted chiefly of small oak trees, thin and wisened of trunk, but branching out into thick foliage overhead. The ground underneath could scarcely be dignified by the name of soil. Here and there were long slippery banks of shale. In places the naked rock broke out into sharp points and ridges. Great moss-covered boulders were strewn everywhere. Progress was difficult in the darkness, but Tredegar was used from boyhood to finding his way over this sort of ground. And it was here that he had some hope of finding his quarry. If the murderer knew anything of the district, this would be the chosen place of his retreat. For not one of the country folk for miles around would enter it after dark. In the very centre of the wood rose a tall mound, the sides of which consisted of shale and boulders. At the summit a broken wooden railing enclosed the mouth of a shaft. This was the old Tredegar lead mine. In 1873 fifty men and sixteen boys perished from a fall of rock in one of the workings. Some were crushed, others were starved to death. There was not a village with in a radius of six miles that had not had its houses of mourning. And it was believed that the ghosts of the dead peopled the wood.

       Of a truth the very wood had been created to hide them from mortal eyes. At last men had seen them on the bare, slaty hill, and for the good of the neighbourhood Tredegar's uncle had planted thousands of trees. Here, so the Welshmen said, the dead men walked and waited, and no one saw them or dared to break in on their solitude.

       Tredegar himself had no superstitious fears. He only saw a likely place for a hunted man — a place, in fact, that would suit both himself and the man he was in search of.

       He made his way towards the old lead mine, moving more by instinct and knowledge than by anything he could see. At last, in the distance, he saw a patch of faint grey light. He knew at once that it was the mound running up to the shaft. There were no trees upon it.

       Then suddenly he blundered into something stretched across his path. He put out his hand, and felt a rope. It was about half an inch in diameter. He pulled out his matchbox and struck a light. And there, in the faint yellow flare of the match, he saw a sight which filled him with unspeakable horror. Another rope stretched from another tree, and yet another and another, and four more descending from the darkness above. And in the centre there was a web of rope with three small objects hanging from it. The match burnt to his fingers, and he was in darkness. He blindly caught hold of the bough of a tree and tried to think. It was impossible! It was incredible! Here, in civilised Wales, was a smaller but similar web to the one he had found on the island!

       Was it a more coincidence, or was it — in a flash the horrible truth burst upon his bruin, and he drew in his breath sharply, it was no coincidence. The creature had followed him to England. Doubtless it had swum out from the shore and concealed itself in the ship. It had landed in the bay. It had begun to wreak its blind animal fury on the peaceful villagers of Cardiganshire — on David James, on young Evans, on Cyrus Walroyd himself. Now at last he saw all the story of that terrible night when he had fled from the dead body of his host. The open window, the man stealing through it to take that which he could not purchase, the silent pursuer with its terrible strength, the death struggle. It was all clear to him as though he had seen it with his own eyes. And there among the stunted oaks he seemed to see the tall mahogany trees, and the giant creepers, and the twisted orchids, and he thought he could hear the creep and rustle of the spiders.

       In a moment the vision passed from his brain, and striking another match he inspected the web. It was much smaller than the one on the island. Two rabbits and a squirrel were hanging from it. They were fastened on by bits of string.

       And then, in the darkness, a great fear fell upon him, not for himself. but for Myvanwy. And he resolved to stay in the neighbourhood even at the risk of his own life.

       He roused himself and moved on towards the old mine, till he reached the foot of the mound. Here he halted a minute in the shadow of the trees, and reconnoitred carefully. He was just going to move on when something, round and small appeared at the edge of the shaft. He stood still, and as he watched, it grew in to the head and shoulders of a man, and finally the whole body appeared, and crawled on to the heaps of broken slate. Then the man knelt down and appeared to be busy with something. A few minutes afterwards he hauled a small shapeless bundle out of the pit, and looked carefully round. Then he threw the bundle on his shoulder with what seemed to Tredegar a tremendous effort for so small a burden, and walked away towards the Plas Tredegar.

       Tredegar crept cautiously round the edge of the clearing and followed him.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XI.
THE MAN IN THE BOAT.

       Tredegar followed the other man through the wood. He had seen at a glance that it was not the creature he was searching for. But there was something here that required explanation, and he resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery.

       He made his way through the trees with considerable care and difficulty. As far as he could judge, the other, man was about a hundred yards ahead or him. Every now and then he paused and listened for some indication of the direction in which his quarry was travelling. The sounds were of the faintest — the occasional swish of a bough, or snap of a twig, or clink of a stone. That was all. He himself moved with infinite caution, so that the other man might hear nothing. But it, was a tedious and risky task in the darkness, and he was glad when at length he came to the edge of a paddock, adjoining the grounds of the Plas Tredegar, and saw a dark form moving stealthily along the railings towards the sea.

       He did not emerge from the wood, but crept down the side of it. Then one of the iron nails in his boots caught a stone with a sharp clink, and the other mun stopped and listened, and turned his face towards the wood. Tredegar crouched down and examined the features and form through a gap in the hedge. Then he uttered a low exclamation of surprise. It was John T. Walroyd.

       For two minutes neither man moved. Then Walroyd took something from his pocket and inspected it carefully. It was a revolver, and Tredegar could see the light on its barrel. He slid softly behind the trunk of a tree and lay down. He was not prepared to take any chances.

       Walroyd, however, merely looked at his weapon, and replacing it in his pocket, moved, rapidly towards the sea. Tredegar rose to his feet, and crept silently along the inside of the hedge.

       When Walroyd reached the edge of the cliff he fastened his bundle round his waist and commenced to climb down to the shore. The cliffs at this point were not more than sixty feet high, and the descent was easy. The face was not perpendicular, and long ledges of slate, tier after tier, gave a firm hold for both hands and feet.

       Tredegar advanced quietly to with in a few yards of the edge and then sat down on the grass till he heard the sound of Walroyd's feet upon the shingle below. Then he crawled forward on his hands and knees and peered over.

       He saw a dark figure moving southwards under the shadow of the cliff. Walroyd was evidently going away from the village of Garth. And Tredegar wondered what errand could take him in this direction, for the nearest hamlet was eight miles away to the south.

       He quickly made up his mind to remain on the top of the cliff. There was no sand on the beach below, and it would have been impossible for him to have followed Walroyd over the pebbles without being detected.

       He turned his face to the South and walked along the grass, some dozen feet from the edge. Every step forward took him farther from the man he was following, for the cliffs rose gradually as they swept away from the village of Garth, till at a point scarcely a mile distant, they were over five hundred feet in height.

       Before he had gone many yards he stopped and looked out across the sea. A faint haze was on the waters and it was impossible to see things clearly. But in the distance he could see three black specks in the silvery mist. He watched them carefully. He knew two of them well. They were the twin spurs of the Bass Rock, which at high tide, lay a hundred yards from the edge of the water. But he had never noticed the third before. And even as he looked, it seemed to him that it moved ever so slightly.

       At last, as he drew nearer, he saw that it was a boat, rocking idly on the smooth surface of the sea. There appeared to be some people in it, but Tredegar could not be certain on this point until he came almost opposite to it. Then he saw that it was manned by three men. Two of them held an oar apiece, and the third was crouching up in the bows.

       The crunch of Walroyd's feet on the shingle beneath had grown fainter and fainter as Tredegar had proceeded on his way, till at last it died out altogether. But, looking over the edge, he saw Walroyd trudging slowly along the beach, a mere speck in the moonlight. He lay down and watched him. Then he suddenly started. Some three hundred yards behind Walroyd another figure moved stealthily from boulder to boulder, and as he watched it he noticed that it moved in a very curious manner, not upright as a man, but on all fours like a beast. And yet not altogether like a beast, for every now and then it would move swiftly forward on two legs and decrease the distance between itself and John Walroyd. The latter appeared to be entirely unaware of its approach.

       Tredegar's blood ran cold at the sight. He had seen that ungainly movement once before. If John Walroyd did not turn and see his danger he was a dead man. Tredegar picked up a stone and sent it flying on to the rocks below. Walroyd turned round sharply, and the pursuer sank flat on the ground behind a small rock. And then, for the first time, Tredegar saw that something else moved on the beach nearly a quarter of a mile behind the thing that crouched among the pebbles.

       After a pause of two or three minutes, Walroyd continued his journey, but the thing still remained motionless by the spur of grey rock, and the newcomer crept nearer and nearer in the shadow of the cliff. Tredegar rose to his feet and ran as hard as he could over the brow of the ascent.

       Three hundred yards further on the cliff sloped down again to a height of one hundred and fifty feet, and at this point a narrow winding path led to the beach. He ran as though the devil were at his heels.

       In less than five minutes he had reached the beach, and was moving slowly and softly over some ridges of slate to the projecting corner of the cliff which hid everything from his sight. When he reached it, he saw that the boat was close inshore against a small platform of rock, and that Walroyd was talking to the man in the bows. He looked carefully along the beach to the north, but could see nothing of the other two figures.

       A high spur of rock ran down almost to the water's edge from the place where he was standing. He looked at it inquiringly; the top was broad and even, and if he could reach it, he could crawl along it to within a few yards of the boat. He tried two or three places, but with no success. He could not afford to risk a fall on the shingle. He knew that Walroyd was armed, and would not hesitate to fire on him. He would be shot like a wild beast, and the whole countryside would applaud his murderer. He could not, therefore, attempt any ascent where he could not be certain of a sure foothold. At last, however, he found such a place, and, reaching the summit, crawled along to the end of the ridge.

       He looked over the edge, and saw that Walroyd was still talking to the stranger. The latter was standing now on the rock, and his back was towards Tredegar. He was a small man, and his head did not reach to Walroyd's shoulder. Then he suddenly turned, and Tredegar drew in his breath sharply, and could scarcely prevent himself from giving vent to an exclamation of surprise. The little man was Mr. Cantrip.

       Tredegar puzzled his brain to think of any possible connection between the two men, but in vain. He leaned forward to catch their conversation, but they weree speaking in low tones, so that even the boatmen could not hear them. The whole thing was so unsuspected and incredible That Tredegar could think of no solution to the problem.

       He had only seen Mr. Cantrip three or four times, and knew nothing about him, but it seemed an inexplicable circumstance that this little old man from River street should have a midnight appointment with a millionaire in Wales. But he guessed now that there was some mystery in the past life of the Walroyds, and he had a vague feeling that he was being drawn against his will into a strange web of circumstances, and that even the horrible creature that had followed him to England was weaving some of the threads that would ultimately entangle his life. But he could not see into the darkness before him, and now when a few words might have explained everything, he could only listen and hear nothing but the low murmur of voices.

       In less than five minutes Cantrip stepped into the boat, and the men pushed out from the shore. Tredegar could see that Walroyd no longer had the bundle at his waist, and that the old man was fingering something lovingly in the bows.

       The boat made straight out from the shore into the west, and for the first time Tredegar noticed a light twinkling on the horizon, and knew that a ship was waiting in the bay.

       In less than a quarter of an hour, the boat had vanished in the haze upon the sea. But John Walroyd still stood upon the ledge of rock, and gazed out across the waters.

       Then suddenly a terrible scream broke the silence. There was a sound of pebbles flung up by a man's feet, and a second or two later a figure emerged from the shelter of the cliff — the figure of a man running as though for his life. A few yards behind him came a huge brown form, moving swiftly in leaps and bounds. Tredegar rose to his knees as they neared the rock, and looked round for some missile, but the surface of the ridge was bare as a billiard-table. Walroyd's hand went sharply to his pocket, and the barrel of his revolver glittered in the moonlight. He raised it, but dared not fire. The two men were coming for him in a straight line.

       Then the foremost man fell on his face with a crash. Quick as thought Walroyd seized the opportunity and fired at the pursuer. He missed and the bullet spattered against the ruck behind, and before he could fire again the two forms rolled over and over on the ground, and there was a sound of snapping bones and a long, terrible wail of pain.

       Walroyd was no coward. He knew when he fired that the murderer of three men was before him. He ran hastily towards the struggling mass of limbs so as to get in a shot with out hurting both of the combatants, but fortune was against him. His foot slipped on a piece of wet sea weed, and he went crashing to the ground. His revolver flew out of his hand.

       He rose to his feet, but before he could regain the weapon he was seized from behind and flung down in a heap among the pebbles. He did not stir. The creature leant over him and then stooped and caught him by the arms, but before it could do anything further, its throat was seized in a powerful grasp, and it was forced slowly backwards from his prey.

       Tredegar had been watching the whole proceeding from the top of the cliff, and this was the moment he thought fit to interfere. He had no reason to love. John Walroyd, but he had every reason for saving him from this adversary. He had slid down swiftly from the rock, and thrown himself headlong into the combat.

       The creature loosed Walroyd. All its energies were required for, this new foe. It seized Tredegar by the collar, and literally tore off one side, of his clothes in a single sweep of its claws. Coat, waistcoat, and shirt hung in shreds from Tredegar's waist, and his bare side, was streaked with long red lines of blood. He winced with pain, and drawing back his right hand, struck the animal so fearful a blow in the face that the blood spurted from it, and its hair was crimson in the moonlight. But before he could strike again the creature broke from the grasp of his left hand, and fled. Perhaps, with dumb, brutal instinct, it had recognised its adversary. Perhaps it realised that it had met its match. At any rate, it fled howling along the shore. Tredegar sprung to the revolver, which lay shining on the pebbles, and steadying the weapon with his left arm, fired every barrel at his retreating foe. At the best of times he was not a good shot, and in the darkness and excitement of the moment, every one of his bullets went, wide of the mark. He flung the revolver on the beach with an oath, and turned to Walroyd. The latter opened his eyes and stared up at the sky.

       Then he saw Tredegar, and quickly reaching out across the pebbles for his revolver, he aimed it at the latter's face and pulled the trigger five times in rapid succession. There was no report, and his hard keen face grew pale. He rose to his knees, and swung the weapon back to hurl at the man he thought to be his adversary. Tredegar quickly caught hold of his wrist and gripped it so tightly that the revolver fell on the stones with a clang.

       "That will do, Mr. Walroyd," he said calmly. "I don't know why you should want to shoot me. I have just saved your life. If I had been a minute later you would have been a dead man. I have not come off scot free myself."

       Walroyd did not answer, but stared wildly at Tredegar's face. The gigantic figure of the latter looked weird end terrible in the moonlight. His side was red with blood, and the shreds of his clothing hung down in festoons from his waist. A braver man than John Walroyd might have quailed at such an apparition.

       "You recognise me, I suppose," Tredegar continued.

       "Yes," said Walroyd, "I recognise you." His face was white as death. Another man might have prayed for mercy, but Walroyd's quick brain was only searching for some means of escape. He glanced quickly to right and left, then suddenly sprang to his feet, and swerved out of the reach of Tredegar's arm. The latter picked up a heavy stone from the shingle and hurled it at the legs of the flying form with such force and accuracy that Walroyd gave a cry of pain and dropped on to the beach. Tredegar came up and caught hold of his arm.

       "What's this nonsense," he said sharply. "I have just saved your life, and you are flying from me as if I was trying to take it. I suppose to-morrow you will tell everyone that you have escaped from the mad Tredegar. You contemptible fool," and his voice rose with passion. "You will find out before long that you are after the wrong man. Why, I could kill you now, as easily as I could kill a cat. Perhaps if I spare you, you will understand that I am no murderer. But I will ensure your silence till I have left, the neighbourhood. You unutterable idiot, if you only knew what it is you have to fear, you would pray every night on your knees to God, and thank Him, that Emrys Tredegar was at hand to-night to save you."

       Furious with anger, Tredegar wrenched some strips off his clothing and bound Walroyd hand and foot, so that he could not move a limb. Then he carried him farther up the beach, out of reach of the highest possible tide. Walroyd did not speak a word, but he foamed at the mouth with impotent rage.

       "Do you know," Tredegar said, as he set him down on the stones, "that I have given you two lives to-night. You will repay me by hunting me down to the death. But if ever I meet you again, Mr. John T. Walroyd, I will let you know the sort of man I am to deal with."

       With these words he left Walroyd, and walked over to where another form lay motionless on the beach He turned the body over so that the moonlight, fell upon the face. It was a stranger, a keen, thin foxy faced man with red hair. Tredegar searched his pockets for some clue to his identity. Among the half dozen letters addressed to

JAMES WRIGHT, ESQ.,

The Red Lion.

Llanfihangel.

he found one in a hand that he recognised. It was brief, and to the point.

       "DEAR SIR,
              "I enclose you a further £10. I hope you will soon have news of what you seek. — C.C."

       Tredegar crumpled the letter in his great palm, and rising to his feet looked with contemptuous pity on the face of the dead man.

       "A detective," he muttered to himself. "In the pay of Cynthia Cantrip. I wonder if she means me well."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XII.
BY THE SARN OF CEFYN.

       Tredegar ran towards Garth as fast as he could make his way over the rocks and shingle. Then he climbed the cliffs and doubled back swiftly to the south. As he passed the place where he had left John Walroyd, he peered over the edge. and saw that the latter had not moved. Fifty yards a way another form lay motionless. It was the body of the stranger, crumpled into a little heap like a dead insect.

       Tredegar passed the highest point of the cliff and descended a long slope to a tiny bay. Then he crossed this and began to ascend the next ridge of hill. A little way inland a farmhouse stood white and bare in the moonlight. He looked at it, stopped a moment doubtfully, and then walked boldly up to the gate. A sheep dog began to bark and rattle his chain.

       Tredegar flung himself upon the animal and strangled it. He felt as though he had murdered a friend, for he was passionately fond of dogs. But it was no time for sentiment. Whatever stood in his path that night had to be silent or to die. Five minutes later ha had broken into the house and secured every piece of food he could lay hands on, together with an old coat and a flannel shirt. He left nothing that could possibly be eaten, and he emerged with a small sack full of loaves, hams, flour, butter, cheese, &c. He gave one glance at the dead collie, patted him tenderly on the head, and fled up the hill.

       He had decided on his hiding place. Two miles south of Garth there was a small hole in the face of the cliff. It was about fifty feet from the ground, and not more than four feet in diameter. Twenty years before the date of this story a mining engineer from London had spent his summer at Garth. In the course of his wanderings along the beach he had picked up a piece of gold quartz, and his practised eye had detected a reef on the slaty face of the cliff. He returned to London had an assay made, and found that it ran about six ounces to the ton. On the strength of this he obtained mining rights, floated a small company, and they commenced boring an adit in the wall of rock. They took out sixty tons of quartz, and obtained about 250 ounces of gold. For two or three months Wales boomed like Australia in the palmy days of Ballarat. Mines sprung up like mushrooms, and miners in far off lands started to pack their goods and book passages to England. Then one fine day the reef disappeared, and the company dug through yards and yards of slate in the hope of finding it again. But never another penny weight of gold did they take out of the concern, and the only asset of the company when it was wound up was a tunnel some 200 yards in length.

       It was for this place that Tredegar was making. He had explored it often as a boy, and had been whipped more than once for returning home with torn and dripping garments. It was one of these incidents that had flashed across, his mind as he hurriedly cast about for some place of refuge. The miners had struck a tiny spring in their efforts to find gold, and at the bottom of the adit was a minute stream of trickling water. It would be useful in case of a siege.

       He passed over the brow of two more hills, and descended a small valley to the beach. Then he returned towards Garth till he reached the mouth of the adit. It looked black and dismal in the moonlight.

       The ascent was a difficult one for a man laden with half a hundred weight of food, but he accomplished it in safety. As he crawled in at the narrow entrance, the cold chill of water struck through the knees of his trousers, and he could hear it dripping from the roof. It was a miserable place for even a wild beast to shelter in.

       When he had gone a few yards down the tunnel, he struck a match. The walls were green with slime, and they glistened in the light. He moved on rapidly, striking one match after another till he reached the end of the tunnel. Here there was a cross-cut, running twenty yards each way into the walls. It had been bored a foot above the bottom of the adit, and was comparatively free from water. He put down the sack of provisions in a dry place, and returned to the mouth of the tunnel. The dawn was breaking over the mountains in the east, and the smooth sea glimmered coldly in the twilight. The tide was low, and at this point a long, narrow stretch of shingle ran out for more than half a mile into the water. It was the famous Sarn of Cefyn.

       Tradition has it that in the far past, this part of Wales was originally joined to Ireland, and that, the Sarn is the last connecting link between the two countries. For ten miles out it is visible under the water, though fifty yards on either side of it the sea-bed lies eighty fathoms deep. The fishermen say that in low tides and clear waters they can see the ruins of a city at the far end of it. And more than one has told tales of strange dim shapes that swayed and moved and glided in the green water, of faint music chanted by ghostly voices, of the clear notes of a bell ringing slowly, in the distant depths.

       Tredegar had heard, all these tales in his boyhood, and he idly recalled them as he looked out across the sea. He even thought that he could, hear the voices calling to him across the waters and urging him to fly from England. Then on the distant hills he saw the dark woods round Llynglas, and knew that he could not go, and that he must watch over Myvanwy till this foul creature had been killed or captured, and that he must risk his own life to be near her.

       As the sun rose, and the whole panorama of the bay was flooded with light, he retired to the cross-cutting, and lay down to rest. For he had to sleep by day, and go forth at night, when the thing he was in search of was abroad. Then he closed his eyes and lay down in the darkness, and listened to the drip-drip of water from the tunnel roof till he went to sleep.

       For a whole fortnight Tredegar lived in his burrow. He never stirred from it by day, but every night, he would creep stealthily inland and make his way by a long, circuitous, route to the woods round Llynglas. Here he would watch and listen through the hours of darkness, always on the alert in case Myvanwy needed his assistance, yet never showing himself or attempting to communicate with her. More than once he saw her dear face, and was so close, to her that a whisper would have reached her ears. But he was silent. They had said the last word — "Good-bye!" And though he suffered agonies from his silence, he had resolved not to speak again till his name was clear from dishonour.

       And through all these weary days he never heard the sound of a human voice, save in the distance; nor could he find any trace of the thing he sought, save only that strange web in the Tredegar woods. Hour after hour on his journey homeward he would sit among the trees at the foot of the mound and watch for the creature to appear. But he never saw it, though he knew it was still alive and in the neighbourhood, for fresh animals were fastened to the web each time he saw it. He saw John Walroyd twice again in these nightly vigils. Once on the lawn of Llynglas with Mr. Morgan, and once going through the Tredegar woods with another small bundle. He puzzled his brain for any solution of this new mystery. He once more followed Walroyd, and once again saw the boat run into the shore and Mr. Cantrip land from it. But he gathered no information about their business.

       He slept most of the day, but at early dawn and evening he would sit near the mouth of his tunnel and drink in the sunlight on the shore and sea. He rarely saw anyone pass along the beach. An occasional fisherman with a prawn net, poking about in the pools and crevices of the rocks; an old woman and her little grandson gathering driftwood for the fire; now and then a small party of summer visitors. But visitors were few in Garth that year. The terror of the place had been noised abroad in every newspaper in England, and the landladies waited in vain for the money that would keep them, in comfort during the winter.

       Tredegar waited and watched from the side of the cliff like an eagle perched on a crag. And in the long hours of silence he tried to find some solution of the things he could not understand. But he tried in vain to pierce the veil. All was darkness.

       Then one evening in August a dazzling flash of light broke across the gloom, and left behind it a horror that was more terrible than all the blackness of the night,

       It was nearly nine o'clock, and Tredegar was just starting on his nightly journey to Llynglas. There was still a faint glow or crimson in the west, but it was dark enough for him to escape observation. The moon was not up, and the whole land was wrapt, in grey shadows. A few yellow lights twinkled along the shore by Garth.

       He slid over the edge of the entrance, and descended slowly and silently to the beach. When he had reached the bottom he crept along close under the cliff towards the south. It was high tide, and in the other direction the sea washed deep against half a dozen points between him and Garth.

       He had nearly reached the little cove where the cliffs ran down to, the level of the shore, when suddenly the grey figure of a woman moved out of the shadow of a rock and stood in his path. He stopped, and crouched low to the ground. She advanced towards him fearlessly. At that time few women in the neighbourhood would have dared to come out after nightfall, and the appearance of a man would have sent them away shrieking with terror. They were all afraid of meeting the madman, Emrys Tredegar. But this woman walked up close to him. She was evidently a stranger. It was he who turned to fly.

       But before he had gone a couple of yards a voice called his name, and he stopped.

       "Myvanwy!" he said, in a low voice. "Is that you?"

       The woman did not answer, but came to his side, and laid her hand upon his arm. A silk scarf muffled her face.

       "Emrys," she repeated, "I want to speak to you."

       And then he recognised the voice, and knew who it was.

       "You here, Cynthia!" he cried, in astonishment. "What brings you here? At this time — now?"

       "What should bring me here?" she broke in passionately. "I have come to save you! I have come in time! I have tracked you to Garth. One of the detectives is dead. They say you killed him! The news in the papers brought me down. For a fortnight I have searched and watched and waited. I have run you down at last! You must leave here at once! This very evening a fisherman caught sight of something moving in your hiding-place. They are going to hunt the beach to-night. Emrys, you must leave at once! Here, I have money! Take it, but go at once!"

       And she pulled out a thick wad of banknotes and thrust it into his hand.

       "You are generous, Cynthia," he said, handing her back the notes. "But I cannot go."

       "Ah!" she cried, in a hard voice, "that other woman! You cannot leave her! Then stay here and die —– Oh, no, Emrys, forgive me! I only want to save you! Leave this part of the beach before they come here. I implore you!"

       "Yes," Tredegar, replied: "I must find another lair for to-morrow. But you — I cannot leave you here! Even men are afraid to go out alone at nights."

       "I am not afraid of you, Emrys," she said, with a smile.

       He laughed bitterly.

       "No, no, of course not," he replied. "But there is real danger abroad — something too terrible to contemplate! If it is not caught soon, I shall probably suffer for its crimes. But I will see you home to Garth. You are staying there, I suppose?"

       "Yes, with my father," she answered. "He knows Mr. Walroyd, and has business with him. I wanted a rest, and persuaded him to bring me here. It was only a short time ago that I found out that he knows this place."

       "Why did you come?" Tredegar asked," abruptly. "What should bring you to a place like this?"

       "I wanted to speak to you," she said, stopping and clutching him by the arm. "I had forgotten for the moment. Your danger overshadowed all else. I did not come down here to follow you because — because I care for you. I have some pride left. But the present you left me — I have not thanked you for it — and — and —–. Oh, where in God's name, did you get it?"

       He hesitated. He had no wish to tell her from whence it came.

       "I picked it up," he said, after a pause, "on the coast of a desert island, where I was wrecked."

       The grip of her fingers; tightened on his arm.

       "Yes, yes!" she said, hastily. "Go on!"

       "That is all," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

       She loosed his arm and walked a few paces away from him. Then she returned swiftly.

       "I will tell you," she said, in a low voice. "Then, perhaps, you will tell me all you know. I have never seen the half disc before, but the piece of bracelet — it was once mine. My initials are on it still — and I gave it — to my husband."

       "Your husband?" cried Tredegar in astonishment. "I did not know that you were married?"

       "I was married," she replied, with averted eyes; "but my husband left me eight years ago, and he is now dead. He was drowned at sea. I resumed my maiden name. He had covered his own with infamy."

       Tredegar stood as though he had been carved out of stone. Every trouble of his own was forgotten. The woman's words swept over his brain like a flood of fire, obliterating everything but the one central fact which glowed like molten steel. The horror of it was inconceivable.

       "Her husband!" he muttered to himself. "Her husband! Oh, my God!"

       She could not see his face in the darkness, but she heard his muttered words, and peered up at him inquiringly.

       "Yes, my husband," she said, slowly, and with an effort. "Tell me where you found the bracelet. The truth, mind you — the truth!"

       He was silent for a moment. Then he said in a low tone of pity:—

       "I found it — on the body — of a dead man."

       "Thank God!" she said, with emphasis. "I thank God that he is dead!"

       Tredegar shuddered, and roughly shook her hand from his arm.

       "Ah!" she said, "you loathe me! You think I should be sorry. He ruined my life, and left me. I have thought him dead for eight years, and to-night I say thank God —– Ah! what is that? Quick, Emrys! We have been, talking — wasting time! Quick! Hide or run! Oh, it is too late — too late! I —– Leave me, quick — leave me! Oh, what have I done?"

       Tredegar swung round on his heel, and saw half a dozen lights moving between him and the pathway up the hill. At the same time there was the sound of two boats grounding on the shingle, and the rush of a small body of men from the other direction. He was surrounded!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE TOILS OF THE HUNTER.

       For one brief moment Tredegar stood irresolute. He was thinking not of himself, but of the woman who had come out to save him, and who would he compromised for life. He turned, and grasped her arm roughly.

       "Scream!" he said, in a whisper. "Loud, so they can hear you! Quick!"

       She was silent.

       "Scream, you!" he said hoarsely; and he gripped her so tightly with his powerful fingers that she gave a piercing shriek of pain.

       Then he ran swiftly from her side, as though he had been surprised in an attempted murder. It did not matter which way he ran. On one side there was the cliff; on the other the sea with two boats on it. Before and behind him the dark figures of his pursuers.

       He moved rapidly up to those who had landed from the limits, and stopped.

       "What do you want!" he said, quietly. "Let me pass!"

       Half a dozen guns were levelled at him, and struck aside by the more prudent who saw that the other party was in the direct line of fire. None of them moved forward.

       "Let me pass!" he said. "I am Emrys Tredegar, and you had better not stop me!"

       "We will stop you all right!" said the voice of John Walroyd; and some of the men laughed.

       Tredegar's blood boiled. He could only remember that a fortnight ago he had saved this man's life.

       "You fools!" he cried. "You are after the wrong man. Let me pass!"

       Again they laughed. Then he clenched his fists and went straight for them. He knew the game was up, and that escape was practically impossible. Some of them were armed, and though they would not dare fire while he was in their midst they would loose a volley directly he got clear of them. It would, indeed, be a miracle if one of them did not hit him. He realised to the full that they would kill him rather than let him escape. And so he rushed into their midst for a last good fight, every muscle in his frame strung up for a contest that would leave his mark on more than one of his adversaries.

       If they had not been so close together they would have moved aside to let him pass and trusted to their guns. But very shame kept them in position. The first two went spinning to the shingle, and then half a dozen leaped upon him and tried to tear him to the ground. He tore off two, one with each hand, and shook the others with such violence that they swung off their feet and fell heavily from him, taking pieces of cloth off in their grips. Then another lot sprung upon him, and he saw the ugly flash of a knife. He had restrained himself till then. His great strength had been almost a handicap, for he knew that a blow from his fist might possibly be mortal, and then he would be a murderer indeed. But the blue glitter of steel roused him to a sudden burst of fury. He caught the man's wrist with one hand, and dealt him so terrific a blow on his arm with the other that the bone snapped, and the fellow shrieked with agony as the knife went tinkling to the stones.

       It was a great fight, but if was over in less than five minutes. Tredegar was overpowered by numbers and bound hand and foot. His face and hands were red with blood and he trembled in every limb. Then he looked at the crowd and smiled. He had marked a dozen of them, and four had broken limbs. It was a great fight, he thought to himself, one worthy of Samson and the Philistines.

       Three figures had stood apart from the combat, two men and a woman. They now approached. Walroyd came forward to meet them with a lantern in his hand. As he saw the woman's face he started:—

       "You, Miss Cantrip," he cried in amazement. "What —–"

       "We were only just in time to save her," her father broke in.

       "Ah, the scream," said Walroyd. "I thought it sounded like a woman, but we could not see from this side. Well, he's safe enough now. I am glad we did come in time. Yet how on earth did you come here, Miss Cantrip?"

       For a moment she hesitated. Then she saw that she was bound to continue the lie.

       "I fell asleep round by the rocks this afternoon," she said faintly. "When I woke it was getting dark, and I was cut off from Garth by the tide. So I had to come along this way. Then a man grasped me by the arm. I did not see his face, but I was frightened end screamed. That is all."

       "The scoundrel," said Mr. Morgan. "thank God we have got him. He'll swing now."

       "Let's look at him," said Mr. Cantrip, swinging his lantern and peering to where Tredegar stood surrounded by his captors. "A strong fellow, eh! Done some damage, eh! Yet I wager I once saw a man who could have downed him, eh! Cynthia I should like to look at him. You'd better stay here, my girl, with Mr. Walroyd," and he blinked his little eyes as he saw a flash of pleasure cross the American's face. For John Walroyd was never insensible to the beauty of a woman, and Mr. Cantrip had more than once during the past fortnight noticed the American's admiration for his daughter.

       "No, I will come with you," she answered firmly. An idea had flashed across her brain. She had yet another part to play in this tragedy.

       "You had better stay here," Mr. Cantrip answered coldly. "This is no sight for a woman," and he moved towards the crowd. She turned her back on Walroyd and followed. The latter bit his lips with vexation, and then walked slowly after her.

       As they neared the group of men they saw by the light of the lanterns that several of them were hurt, and that four were stretched out on the ground. The old man chuckled.

       "By the gods," he said, "a pretty fight, a pretty fight. Where is he? I should like to see him." The crowd opened out and they pushed Tredegar a little forward, forgetting that his feet were bound. He fell forward with a crash. Cynthia's face whitened and a look of fury shot from her eyes. The men laughed, and half a dozen of them hauled Tredegar to his feet again and set him up, as one sets up a fallen pillar. His forehead was streaked and stained with blood, and it trickled down his dirty unshaven cheeks. The old man came close to him, and raising the lantern, peered up into the ghastly face. He started, and a keen observer might have noticed that the hand which held the lantern trembled. Then his daughter who was behind him suddenly sprung forward with u cry of surprise, and snatching the lantern from his hand held it up within a foot of Tredegar's face.

       "Father," she cried, "who is this? Surely there is some mistake. This is Mr. Edwards, the man who was ill at our house. Don't you remember him? There is some awful mistake here. Why, at the very time the second murder was committed this man was ill. I read the account of it to him myself from the newspaper," and she turned round and faced the crowd that was pressing close to her to hear her words. Mr. Cantrip looked sharply up at her excited face, and in a flash he read the whole truth. His daughter had come to the beach that night to meet Emrys Tredegar, to warn him of his danger, to —. He blazed with fury, but restrained himself, and pretended to closely scrutinize the young giant's face.

       "Well, Mr. Cantrip," said Tredegar coldly. "Do you know me?"

       "Yes," the old man answered, "I recognise you. Your name was then Edwards. You doubtless changed it for an excellent reason. I did not know we were entertaining a murderer."

       "But, father," the daughter cried Eagerly, "he could not have committed the second murder. He was with us."

       "I think your memory plays you false," the old man said quietly. "I distinctly remember reading of the second murder five days after he left us. You are distracted with all you have gone through, Cynthia. We will go home," and turning away from Tredegar he began to move across the shingle with feeble steps.

       For a moment Cynthia Cantrip stood looking at his retreating figure with scorn and loathing in her eyes. Then she saw that Walroyd was keenly watching the expression of her face and she laughed nervously.

       "Yes, I think I will go home," she said in a calm voice, and then swayed as though she would have fallen. However, she quickly recovered herself, and looked once more at Tredegar.

       "Come along," said her father roughly. "Mr. Walroyd, can we go back in one of the boats. I am an old man, and I don't think I can manage the walk to-night. I daresay you can find room for us."

       "Certainly," replied Walroyd abstractedly, still keeping his eyes on Miss Cantrip's face. "We have to take Tredegar by boat. But perhaps you would not care to go in that one."

       "Oh, yes," the old man said with an evil smile. "We will certainly go in that one if you are in it. We shall be quite safe."

       Cynthia Cantrip clenched her hands. "Safe," she said to herself: "aye, if Emrys Tredegar could but be free for a moment, you would be safe." Then she felt in her pocket for a small knife she usually carried there.

       "Perhaps," Walroyd said. "Miss Cantrip would not care to —–"

       "Thank you, Mr. Walroyd," she broke in, "I do not mind who is in the boat."

       Walroyd left them and gave orders to the men. The wounded were carefully lifted up and laid in one of the boats. Half a dozen sailors got in with them, and then another half-dozen ran the craft off the shingle, and leapt into it, as it went gliding from the shore.

       Then another batch picked up Tredegar and placed him in the second boat. Walroyd, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Cantrip, and his daughter took their places, and no one noticed that the latter skilfully contrived to be near the prisoner.

       Then the boat was launched and headed towards Garth. The remainder had to return by the Hills, and looking back Tredegar saw the waving line of yellow lights moving along the shore, and heard the strain of a Welsh hymn, sung by the sailors. He could scarcely resist a smile, as the harmonica came across the water to his ears.

       There was little light from the sky overhead and only a single lantern flickered in the bow of the boat. Cynthia drew out her small penknife and felt cautiously for the cords that bound Tredegar's feet. Then a thrill of horror ran through her, for she encountered the cold touch of steel. They had substituted manacles and handcuffs for the cords with which they hand first bound him. She shut up the knife and replacing it in her pocket clasped her hands in silent agony.

       In half an hour they reached Garth. Long before they touched the shore they could see a dense crowd of people, and the continuous moving of lights along the beach. When they were fifty yards from the ripples at the edge, a chorus of voices greeted them.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XIII. — (Continued.)

       "Have you got him? Have you seen him?"

       "Aye, aye," the answer came back from the sailors in the boat. "We have him right enough."

       Then they landed, and lifted Tredegar on to the beach. A dense crowd swayed round his prostrate form, and the air rang with shouts and jokes.

       "You curs!" he said, quietly. "Lift me to my feet."

       They seized hold of him and set him upright. Then he suddenly snarled like a wild beast, and lifted his manacled hands above his head, and the crowd shrank back. The chains clinked on his trembling wrists, and murder was in his soul. A single blow from the irons on his hands would have dashed out a man's brains.

       All at once there was a stir in the crowd, and a woman forced her way through them to Tredegar's side. It was Myvanwy! As he saw her, all the lust of blood died out of his heart, and his great hands sunk down before him.

       Then, without shame or hesitation, she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, and when she had moved her lips from his her face was stained with blood. Then she turned on the crowd, and tried to speak, but the words would not come and she sank senseless to the ground. The crowd stood in silence, but far on the edge of it, almost where the waves rippled to the shore, another woman buried her head in her hands and wept bitterly.

 
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SACRIFICE.

       There was no prison cell in the little village of Garth, and the back parlour of the policeman's house generally served for the trivial offenders that brought themselves within reach of the law. It was felt, however, that a man of such gigantic strength and ferocity as Tredegar, arrested, moreover, on so serious a charge as murder, required a more secure confinement than the four walls of an ordinary room.

       Walroyd suggested one of the cellars of the Plas Tredegar, and the idea was eagerly seized on by the more brutal of the crowd. It amused their coarse natures to think of a man being locked up in his own house. The two policemen were more impressed by the facts which Walroyd put before them — namely, that the cellars were without windows, that the walls were part of the solid rock itself, and that the doors were made of six inches of oak, clamped with iron, and furnished with modern Bramah locks.

       Morgan and Walroyd — the latter of whom was an Englishman, in spite of the many years he had spent in America — were both justices of the peace, and after a brief consultation they ordered the prisoner to be taken up to the Plas Tredegar for the night, and to be removed to the county gaol on the following day. Several men placed Tredegar on a cart, and set off slowly down the village. Walroyd then insisted on both the Morgans and the Cantrips coming home with him to spend the night, giving as the reason for the invitation that Miss Morgan was too ill to stand the long drive to Llynglas, and that Miss Cantrip would be required to keep her company.

       Both the fathers acquiesced willingly in the suggestion; Mr. Morgan, because his daughter was still faint and weak, and it would be impossible to take her back to Llynglas that night, and Mr. Cantrip because he saw the way Walroyd had looked at Cynthia as he issued the invitation, and guessed that the American was seeking some opportunity of seeing his daughter alone. Myvanwy was too ill to offer any opposition and Cynthia, for her own reasons, was silent. She was working out a plan, in her subtle brain, and the invitation supplied the one link she required to join the various parts into a perfect whole.

       They got into Walroyd's waggonette, which was waiting in the street, and calling at the Cantrips' lodgings for the few things necessary for the night, drove rapidly down the long street.

       At the foot of the hill they passed the slow procession taking Emrys to his prison. Cynthia looked back on it with tightened lips. Myvanwy sac with closed eyes and saw nothing. The three men smiled grimly at each other.

       When they reached the house they all had supper, and directly afterwards Myvanwy went up to bed. It had been arranged that Cynthia should sleep in the same room with her, and though the latter now loathed the very sight of her rival, she could not with decency refuse this little comfort to the sick girl.

       When Myvanwy had left the room, Walroyd touched the bell.

       "Send one of the policemen here," he said, when the footman entered.

       The man returned, and in a few minutes afterwards the heavy step of P.C. Davies, the village constable, was heard outside, and there was a loud knocking at the door.

       "Come in!" cried Walroyd.

       The door opened, and a large, grizzly-bearded man stood sheepishly in the entrance.

       "Well, Davies," said Walroyd, "how is the prisoner?"

       "Quiet, sir, aye, indeed, very quiet."

       Walroyd laughed.

       "What do you think of the prison, Davies?"

       "Very strong, sir, and not too comfortable. We've given him some straw to lie on."

       "I'll come down and look," Walroyd said. "Perhaps you had better come, too, Mr. Morgan, and you Mr. Cantrip. I am sure Miss Cantrip will excuse us."

       She smiled sweetly.

       "I think I will come with you," she said. "I am afraid of being left alone." And she gave Walroyd a warm glance of affection that made, him tremble and wish that he could stay behind with her and get rid of the old men.

       "Very well," he replied. "We will all go. I am sure Tredegar ought to be flattered."

       They made their way through several long corridors, and then down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom of these there was another passage, terminating in a heavy door. the policeman went on in front with a lantern; Walroyd and Cynthia brought up the rear. Under cover of the darkness she laid her hand upon his arm, and a thrill went through his whole body, he raised the hand to his lips and kissed it silently. She did not resist.

       The party stopped on the threshold, and P.C. Davies unlocked the door, and entering the cellar rust the light of the lantern round the walls, so that they could see everything. It was a cold, dreary spot to spend the night in. Floor and ceiling were both of stone, and the walls seemed to have been planed out from the solid rock. A few wine-bins ran along on one side, but they were empty. A heap of straw had been thrown in the centre of the floor, and Tredegar lay on this, with his face buried in his arms.

       "Has he had food and water, constable?" queried Walroyd.

       "Yes, sir. We fed him like a baby. Daren't free his hands."

       At the sound of the voice, Tredegar raised himself, and the chains rattled on his limbs." He blinked as the yellow light shone into his eyes, and tried to peer into the darkness beyond. He was a pitiable sight to look upon. His hair was caked and matted with blood; his eyes blazed like two live coals. He showed his teeth through his half-open lips like some, wild beast.

       Then, for a brief second, the light from Davies's lantern fell on the little group by the door. He saw the faces of the three men, and behind them, almost in, the shadow, the red-gold light of a woman's hair. He tried to rise to his feet, but only succeeded in struggling to his knees, and his chains clanked heavily as he shook his great arms towards the door.

       "Leave me," he cried, "or by God, I will come closer to you than you care for," and he shuffled along on his knees towards them.

       Davies sprang forward, and seizing him by the shoulders, hurled him off his balance on to the straw. Cynthia's hands clenched so, tightly that the nails drew blood from her soft white palms. Tredegar lay quite still, and Davies backed cautiously towards the door.

       "Excited, eh? said Walroyd. "I think we will close this interview." When they were all outside he shut the door, and taking the key from the constable, turned it in the lock. In the old days a heavy mass of iron would have accomplished this task, but Walroyd had had patent locks put in all over the house.

       Then they returned to the smoking room, and again in the passage Cynthia's hand contrived to touch Walroyd's. He grasped it fervently in his strong fingers, and then tried to place his arm about her waist. But she moved a little away from him. When they emerged into the light, their eyes met, and she blushed and looked away from him. He burned with passion, and longed to clasp her in his arms.

       The men finished their cigars, and then Cynthia and her father and Mr. Morgan went up to bed. Walroyd remained behind. He had, so he said, certain matters of business to go in to, and certain accounts to make out before the morning. He lit a fresh cigar, and going over to his desk, pulled out a mass of papers and began to sort them.

       Cynthia looked back at him as she left the room, and smiled. He had squeezed her hand very tenderly as he said good-night.

       She went up to her room, and closing the door, walked over to the bed where Myvanwy lay asleep. The girl's dark hair flowed in rippling waves over the pillow. Her face was white, and her lips parted. She stirred, uneasily in her sleep. Cynthia looked at her careworn and beautiful face, and then walking over to the cheval glass, gazed for a minute at her own self. Then, returning to the bed, she looked again at the sleeping form, as though comparing notes with what she had seen in the glass, and her face grew hard and bitter as she looked.

       "You are younger," she said softly as though addressing the sleeping girl, "but you do not love him more, and you are not more pleasing to look upon, and you would not do more to save him."

       Then she turned out the light, and opening the door, quietly made her way back to the smoking-room. The house was wrapt in silence, and even her soft footfalls on the velvet pile carpet seemed to sound alarmingly. She opened the door, and then drew back as she saw the light still burning inside.

       "Who is there?" said Walroyd, quickly shuffling some papers over a glittering object that lay on the desk before him.

       Cynthia held the door half open, but did not show herself.

       "I'm so sorry, Mr. Walroyd," she said softly: "but Myvanwy left her smelling salts somewhere about, and she wants them. Could you give them to me?"

       Walroyd pretended to look about the room. The salts were on a small table close to where Myvanwy had been sitting. He glanced at them with a smile, and put them in his pocket, but continued to search somewhat ostentatiously.

       "I can't see them," he said in a tone, of venation. "Will you come in and look for yourself?"

       She opened the door a little wider and stood irresolutely in the door way, as though half afraid to enter. Walroyd looked round from the corner where he was searching diligently and his face flushed. Rarely had he set his eyes on so glorious a vision as the one he gazed upon. The white beautiful face, the crown of copper hair, the diamonds flashing on her hands and throat, and something indefinable that he had not seen before — a look of passion in the violet eyes, a faint glow on the cheeks, like the flush of coming dawn, the slight parting of the lips that almost seemed to tremble with expectation. Walroyd advanced a step or two across the room.

       "Please come in, Miss Cantrip," he said. "You needn't be afraid."

       She laughed, nervously, and entering the room, began to look round for the bottle of salts. It was needless to say that she did not find it. Walroyd chuckled to himself. He did not know that she had mapped out the whole game, and was going to play it to the end.

       Then, as they were both searching among some odds and ends on a table, their hands chanced to touch, and Walroyd seized her cold white fingers in a warm clasp. She tried feebly to withdraw them, and then laughed.

       "Please, Mr. Walroyd," she said, "I can't look for anything if you do that."

       He seized her other hand and raised both to his lips. Then he drew her close to him, and loosing her hands clasped her in his arms, and kissed her passionately.

       "Cynthia," he cried hoarsely, "I love you. My darling, I love you." A shudder of loathing passed through her body, and she could hardly restrain herself from crying out in horror. Then she burst into tears, and he let go of her.

       "Cynthia," he continued eagerly, "I have not offended you. I could I not help it. I love you so much. Will you be my wife?"

       "Your wife!" she said slowly, "your wife? "She had not dreamt of this. She had hoped to gain her point with a few kisses. But his wife — that would be too horrible a sacrifice.

       "I do not love you, Mr. Walroyd," she said simply.

       "I will make you love me," he answered passionately. "I am rich and can give you all you ask for. You love jewels, do you not?" and he glanced at the gems sparkling on her fingers. "See here." He strode over to a steel safe let into the wall, opened it, and taking out a box, poured its contents on to a velvet cushion. Every gem of the earth was there, and the heap sparkled with every colour of the rainbow. Her eyes glistened, and she turned the jewels over with trembling hands. For the moment she forgot even Emrys Tredegar.

       "These are mine," he said, "and more a hundredfold. Your father is selling off my collection. Perhaps you have seen some of them."

       Her mind went back to the dingy parlour in River street, and then by the association of ideas to Emrys Tredegar. She turned her back on the glittering heap and was silent. Walroyd came close to her and tried once more to take her hand. She moved away from him.

       "I must think," she said in a low voice. "Please let me think."

       For two minutes neither of them spoke. Walroyd busied himself with replacing the jewels in the box, and Cynthia stood with her eyes fixed on the window, as motionless as though she had been turned to stone. At last she made up her mind, and turned her beautiful face to Walroyd.

       "I will marry you, Mr. Walroyd." she said slowly, "but only on one condition, I want you to give me something."

       "Name it," he said, striding towards her. "If it is in my gift, you shall have it."

       "I want," she continued, "the key of the cellar in which Mr. Tredegar is confined. I want also a key to the handcuffs and manacles. Mr. Tredegar must go free to-night. These are my terms."

       "Tredegar go free!" he cried in a burst of sudden jealousy. "What have you to do with — ah, I remember now. No the shall not!"

       "You are indeed an ardent lover," she said scornfully. "But I may tell you that Mr. Tredegar is nothing to me, and that it is only for the sake of that poor child upstairs that I ask you. She will die of a broken heart if anything happens to him. And he loves her with all his soul. Besides, he is an innocent man."

       "That he will have to prove in the dock," Walroyd said grimly.

       "Do I understand that you refuse my request?" Walroyd was silent and taking up a handful of jewels he let them run through his fingers back into the box. She watched them with sparkling eyes.

       "I would rather give you all these," he said after a pause. "You can take them now if you will promise to marry me."

       "I have named my terms," she replied, turning towards the door. "It is surely not so hard a thing to let an innocent man go free, and save the life of an innocent girl." Then she turned back and looked at him with a sad little smile. he searched her face with a keen glance of mistrust, and then her beauty overpowered his senses and his reason. He moved towards her and caught her in his arms.

       "I will do as you ask," he murmured. "I would do anything for you. My darling!" and he kissed her again and again. Her face was crimson with shame, but she did not resist. The price had to be paid.

       "Let me have the keys, please," she murmured.

       "You must not let him out yourself!" he said quickly. "That I insist on. You believe him to be innocent. But I believe him to be a dangerous lunatic."

       "No," she answered, "Myvanwy shall do that. Poor child! How glad she will be to risk her life at the hands of that same dangerous lunatic."

       Walroyd drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, and then went over to the writing table to find a key for the handcuffs. Cynthia followed him. Then as he moved some of the papers, he uncovered a glittering object on the table. Cynthia's keen eyes saw it at once.

       "Whatever is that?" she said.

       "Oh, nothing," he replied with a laugh, "only an old gold curio."

       "May I see it?" she asked. He handed it to her, and continued to search for the key.

       She took the piece of flat metal to the light, and examined it. It was the half of the gold disc that Tredegar had given her, but the piece of chain was missing. She said nothing, but replaced it on the writing table.

       At last Walroyd found a key for the handcuffs and gave it to her.

       "You must do the best you can," he said. "As far as I am concerned I shall see and hear nothing. But I cannot answer for the rest of the household. Good night, my darling!"

       She held out her hand. He laughed, and catching hold of it, drew her close to him and kissed her on the lips.

       "Good night," she said, and breaking away from him she hurried from the room and fled upstairs.

       "Oh, the shame of it," she cried to herself, "the biter shame of it!"

       Then as she opened the door and turned on the light and saw Myvanwy sleeping peacefully, a great fury seized her, and her whole frame shook with passion. She advanced to the bed, and there was murder in her eyes.

       Then she started as though a sudden idea had struck her. She stooped down and looked hard into the girl's face.

       "I have paid my price," she muttered, "and now you must pay yours, Myvanwy Morgan."

       Then she caught the sleeper by the shoulders and shook her violently.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XV.
TWO WOMEN.

       Myvanwy stirred uneasily in her sleep and then opened her eyes.

       "I want to speak to you," said Cynthia in a hard voice. Myvanwy blinked at her, gave a deep sigh, and turned round to go to sleep again.

       "Wake up at once," Cynthia continued sternly; "if you wish to save Emrys Tredegar," and again she shook the girl by the shoulders.

       Myvanwy sat up in bed and stared round the room.

       "Emrys," she murmured; "how can I save him?" Then a look of terror came over her face. "He will not be hanged, will he? No, they could not do it. He is innocent."

       "He will certainly be hanged if you do not rouse yourself."

       "How can I — please tell me what I could do. I would do anything. I would give my life if it were required."

       Cynthia sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled.

       "Would you really give anything," she said: "anything?"

       "I would give everything in my power," Myvanwy replied. "Oh, if I could only give my life for his."

       "Thee law does not want your life," Cynthia, continued pitilessly, "it is very anxious for his, and I am afraid they would not exchange."

       Myvanwy buried her face in her hands and her long dark hair fell over her shoulders like a shroud. Her slender frame shook with sobs.

       But Cynthia Cantrip was relentless as the stroke of doom. She at any rate had acted, and had not wept.

       "This is no time for tears. Myvanwy," she said sternly. "At daybreak Emrys Tredegar will be taken to Cardigan gaol. After that no one can save him. He must be released to-night. He is here — in this house."

       "In this house — in the Plas Tredegar?" Myvanwy cried. "How could they dare!"

       "Well they have dared. He is in the cellar. John Walroyd has the key. He also has a key that will open the handcuffs."

       Myvanwy rose from her bed, and hurriedly began to put on her clothes.

       "I will go to him myself," she said, "and will ask him on my knees to let him go."

       "He will probably grant, your request," Cynthia answered with a slight sneer. "John T. Walroyd can not refuse anything to a beautiful woman. I expect he is still in the smoking-room."

       Myvanwy looked at herself in the glass, and a faint smile passed over her white face. "I am tired," she said; "I am afraid he will not think me beautiful."

       "You are young," Cynthia replied, "and weariness only adds to your charms. At my age it makes a woman haggard and very very old."

       Myvanwy continued her toilet, and paid special attention to the coils of her glorious hair. Cynthia watched her with a cynical smile.

       "Are you not afraid," she said, after a pause.

       "Afraid?" asked Myvanwy. "Why should I be afraid?"

       "Well, is it not rather late for a young girl to seek an interview with a man?"

       A faint blush came to Myvanwy's cheek. "Mr. Walroyd is a gentleman," she said.

       "Doubtless," Cynthia replied, and then she laughed. Myvanwy turned round from the glass and looked at her.

       "What do you mean? she queried.

       "Well," Cynthia answered, "I. mean what I said just now. Mr. Walroyd cannot refuse anything to a beautiful woman."

       "Yes? Well?"

       "Need I say more?" and she shrugged her shoulders.

       "Yes, I don't understand."

       "Well, Myvanwy," she continued, "if you must have it in plain language, John Walroyd is one of those men who do not give without receiving something in return."

       "But, I have nothing to give," Myvanwy cried, "except my heartfelt thanks — my prayers, my —–" she stopped as she saw the sneer on the other woman's lips." Even an innocent girl who had lived all her life in the depths of Wales could read the expression in Cynthia's face. Myvanwy flushed crimson.

       "How dare you," she cried. Cynthia laughed bitterly.

       "You said just, now you would give anything — anything. But you did not mean it, I suppose."

       Myvanwy stared wildly at the looking glass, as though trying to collect, her senses. Then she held on to the mirror to steady herself.

       "John Walroyd, is a gentleman," she said faintly.

       Cynthia rose from the bed and advanced towards her with blazing eyes.

       "John Walroyd is a cad," she said, "and you — you are a weak fool, and not worthy of the love of a man like Emrys Tredegar. You could get these keys out of Walroyd in five minutes, and give — well perhaps a few kisses, perhaps not even that, and yet you stand there and falter and blush. Great heavens, girl, do you realise that a man's life is at stake, and that you have to hesitate at nothing — absolutely nothing to save him, and that you have to act at once."

       "I will go down to him now," Myvanwy said bravely, and she moved towards the door.

       "One moment!" Cynthia — cried. "You may as well be prepared for what you might have to face. Supposing that Walroyd were to — were to make you an offer of marriage, and that Tredegar's fate hung upon your acceptance or refusal, would you be willing to sacrifice your life's happiness to save Emrys Tredegar from death?"

       Myvanwy turned round with a white face and parted lips.

       "No, no — anything but that — you are jesting — it would be impossible. Emrys would rather die than see me the wife of another man — and I — would rather kill myself! What do. you mean? What do you mean? Oh, it is impossible!" She sank in to a chair, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing and swaying to and fro in her grief.

       Cynthia came to her side, and looked at her, half in pity, half in triumph. Then she touched her on the shoulder.

       "Myvanwy," she said quietly, "there will be no need for you to do this. I have already done your task for you. Look here."

       Myvanwy looked up and saw two small keys lying in the other woman's hand. Then Cynthia's face grew very hard and cold.

       "This," she said, holding out one of the keys, "will open the cellar door. The other will open the handcuffs and manacles. They are both yours — at a price."

       "Where —?" gasped Myvanwy. "How did you get them — oh, Cynthia," and she rose and made as though she would embrace her. Miss Cantrip held out one hand and kept her at a distance.

       "They are yours — at a price," she repeated, "and the price may seem to you extravagant. But I can assure you that they have cost me more."

       "Oh, Cynthia, let me have them — quick. I will give you all I have in the world," and she stretched out her hands in supplication.

       "I only ask one thing," Miss Cantrip said, "and that is that you I will swear to me by all you hold most sacred not to marry Emrys Tredegar till — till I am dead, or I release you from your oath."

       "Until you are dead," Myvanwy said with wide open eyes. "Why — I don't understand you, dear. You don't object to my marriage with Emrys?"

       Cynthia Cantrip took the girl by the arm and swung her round so that the light from the electric lamp fell full in her eyes.

       "Listen to me, Myvanwy," she said sternly, "and then perhaps you will understand. An hour ago I obtained those keys from John Walroyd. I have paid for them with my body and soul. I have promised to marry this man, and he has bought me with these two little bits of steel. It is not too much to say that I loathe the sight of him, and have paid for Emrys Tredegar's release with the happiness of my whole life. Now do you understand?"

       Myvanwy raised her eyes to Cynthia's face, and saw that it glowed with the light of the greatest — triumph in the world, the triumph of self-sacrifice. Then she clasped her hands together nervously and looked away.

       "I understand," she said in a low voice. "Oh, how you must hate me — how you must hate me."

       "If I were a good and noble woman," Cynthia continued, "I should be content to have done a good work, and to have sacrificed myself for the happiness of you both. But I am only a jealous and passionate woman, who loves and is not loved in return. And I would rather leave Emrys to die, than see him married to you. I have paid my price. Now you must pay yours."

       "This is cruel," Myvanwy murmured; "This is cruel."

       "Aye," Cynthia answered with flashing eyes, "it is a cruel work for all of us — for me — for you — and for him. Perhaps it would be better to leave him to his fate."

       "No, no," Myvanwy cried, "anything but that. Oh, what shall I do! If I could only speak to him and ask him. I have no one to advise me."

       "You had better accept my terms," said Cynthia, looking at her watch, "and you have no time to spare. I have made them as light as possible. You are only bound till I am dead. I may die to-morrow. Who knows? I have not much inducement to live."

       An eager look came into Myvanwy's white face, but it changed quickly to one of horror, as she realised the vileness of her thoughts.

       "Why do you tempt me," she cried, passionately. "If I do this thing, I shall be a murderess in thought until you die. I shall hope for your death, long for it, even pray for it."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XV. — (Continued.)

       "No, Myvanwy," Cynthia answered quietly, "you are a good woman. If we were to change places, and I had sworn the oath I ask you to swear, your life would be in danger every hour of the day. But you are good and sweet and pure. Your very love ennobles you. Mine is a consuming fire, that has scorched up all the better part of my nature. But enough of words," and she looked at her watch. "It is now two o'clock. I will give you five minutes to decide." She walked to the window, and flinging it open, looked out into the night. Then she turned again to Myvanwy. "If, at the end of this time," she continued, "you do not consent to my terms I shall throw these — keys out of the window. There is a pond at the other side of the gravel walk."

       For a whole minute Myvanwy stood in agony and irresolution. Her face was drawn and haggard, and her fingers were twined so tightly together that it seemed as though the blood would spurt from their tips. Then she looked out of the window. and the single, branch of a pine tree! stood against the sky like a gallows. She gave a low cry, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out the sight.

       "I will swear," she said hurriedly, "If will swear! Quick! Tell me what to say!"

       Cynthia took a small, gold crucifix from her neck and handed it to the white faced, trembling girl.

       "Take this," she said, "and say these words after me."

       "I swear that I will not marry! Emrys Tredegar, nor allow him to be a lover of mine, nor speak a loving word to him, nor tell him why I have done this thing, till Cynthia Cantrip shall release me from my oath or until she is dead. By this holy cross I swear it."

       Myvanwy repeated the words sentence by sentence in a low strained voice.

       "Kiss the crucifix," said Cynthia. The girl pressed it to her white lips and handed it back to its owner.

       Cynthia held out the keys, and Myvanwy took them in her cold fingers.

       "Where is the place?" she said in a low voice.

       "I will show you, Cynthia replied, lighting a candle. "You must not speak a word. Mr. Walroyd will not interfere, but the servants of your father, or mine might hear us. Everything depends on your silence, and here — give this to Emrys — a loan, mind you, from yourself," and she handed her a bundle of banknotes.

       "No, I cannot," Myvanwy said, firmly.

       "Very well," said Cynthia. "Then he may as well stay where he is. He has no money to get out of England."

       Myvanwy took the money in silence, and the two women crept out of the room, and made their way downstairs to the cellar door. There was no sound but the ticking of the clock on the staircase. The whole house was in darkness.

       Then Cynthia pointed to the door; and leaving the candle, groped her way back to her room.

       And then at last, her strong will broke down, and flinging herself on the bed, she cried like a child, and prayed that God might strike her dead for all the evil she had done.

 
CHAPTER XVI.
WHY TREDEGAR DID NOT
LEAVE ENGLAND.

       When his visitors had departed Tredegar crept back to his miserable bed of straw and clenched his hands with impotent rage. Their visit had been an insult to his helplessness. If one hand had been free, nay, if even his feet had been free, he would have flung himself upon them, and beaten them to death. Yet there was one that he knew had not come to mock him. He had caught a glimpse of bright hair in the background. Cynthia Cantrip had not come there to gloat over his misery, and as he thought of her, a thrill of hope ran through his weary body. Her infinite resource, and unfailing energy, might once again he used on his behalf. The debt he owed her, already too large to pay, might, he still further increased. He had no doubt that she was planning his escape. He had felt the soft Lunch of her fingers at his feet in the boat, and realised that even then she had not overlooked the smallest possibility of freeing him from his bonds. And how he had repaid her. Even now, in his lonely prison, he felt ashamed that he should think of her at all. Every thought should be given to the woman he loved, and who, he felt sure would do as much and more for him, if it, were in her power. "Poor Myvanwy," he said to himself, "she is but a child, and has neither the brain to conceive, nor the strength to execute. Yet she has all my heart, and if Cynthia were to lay down her life for me, she could not have that which I have already given."

       Boor Tredegar! His mind was racked between a sense of gratitude and an honest love which takes no account of favours received or to come.

       Then he smiled at his own thoughts. What mattered love or gratitude to one in his position — to a man whose days were in all probability numbered. The shadow of death blotted out everything else. All earthly hopes and fears and passions grew dim under the dark wings of Azrael. He would die like a dog thrown into a pond with a stone about its neck. From his early boyhood he had always dreamed of a heroic death — a last good light with men falling dead around him like leaves shaken from a tree, if only he had been calm and self-possessed on that terrible night at the Plas Tredegar! If he had only stood his ground and faced his trial he might have been a free man to-day! Now he could hardly hope for a verdict of "Not guilty." Only Cynthia Cantrip's evidence would be in his favour, and the lying tongue of her father would outweigh that. It would be suspected that she, was prejudicial and that she lied for love of him.

       For two hours he lay in the darkness, turning over these and other thoughts in his mind. The oppressive silence was only broken by the faint sound of a rat nibbling at one of the old wine bins. At last even that ceased, and Tredegar felt as though he had lost a companion in his loneliness. His mind idly turned to the days of his boyhood, when he used to bring his fox terrier down into the cellar and hunt the rats out of a pile of old boxes in the corner. He would have given all his worldly goods to feel the cold nose of that terrier now against his hand. The darkness and the silence were terrible, he began to whistle, but the notes, sounded harsh and discordant, and the tune died away on his lips.

       Then he tried to sleep, for he was worn out, but his brain was too active, and his wounds were painful, and the irons on his wrists and ankles had begun to cramp his muscles. It was impossible to lie down in any comfort.

       Then it suddenly struck him that one of the policemen might be outside, and if so, that it would be good to hear his voice even if it were only raised in anger or rebuke. He called out, but there was no response. Then he took a draught of water, and lay quite still.

       At last he heard a faint, movement outside the door, and what seemed like the whisper of voices. He started up, and saw a thin line of light along the floor. Then he listened, every nerve strained to catch the sound. For half a minute there was silence, then he heard the click of the lock, and a streak of yellow came through the half opened door.

       "Who is that?" he said in a whisper.

       "Hush," was the low reply. Then a woman's fingers came into view. At first Tredegar thought it was Cynthia, and when he saw that it was Myvanwy his heart was filled with a great joy. She quietly closed the door behind her, and advanced with the candle in her hand.

       "My darling!" murmured Emrys, rising to his knees and stretching out his manacled hands towards her. She looked at him in terror. He was not a pleasant sight for anyone to gaze upon, and least of all for the girl who loved him. Then her tender heart was filled with a great pity, and she longed to take him in her arms. But, remembering her oath, she kept a little distance from him, and placed the candle on the floor.

       "Emrys," she said, in a trembling voice, "I have come to release you! There is no time to lose!"

       She then took the key from her pocket, and, unlocking the handcuffs, laid them quietly on the straw. Then she knelt down and unfastened the manacles on his ankles. He rose to his feet, and tried to clasp her in his arms. But she evaded him, and held out her hands as though to ward off a blow.

       A look of pain and surprise crossed his face.

       "Myvanwy," he said, "my darling, why —–"

       "There is no time to lose," she exclaimed, hurriedly. "You must be miles away from here by daybreak. No, Emrys! please — remember how late it is! You must fly at once!"

       "My own brave little girl," he said, tenderly. "I shall owe you my life."

       "You owe me nothing, Emrys," she replied, picking up the candle. and moving towards the door.

       He stood still, and then she turned round and gave him such a look of agony that a pain seemed to shoot through his heart.

       "What is it, Myvanwy?" he said. "My darling, what is it? Why do you look at me like that?" And he came close to her side, and once more tried to take her in his arms. She shrank from him, and cowered against the wall, covering her face with one hand and weeping bitterly.

       "Myvanwy! Myvanwy!" he said, in despair. He began to think that her troubles had affected her brain. She raised her head and looked at him with a tear-stained face.

       "Emrys," she faltered. "To-night you must leave the neighbourhood. As soon as possible you must leave England. We can never be married, and you must forget me."

       "I do not understand," he said, hoarsely. "Why can we never be married? My innocence will be proved some day."

       "Your guilt or innocence will not matter, Emrys," she replied. "We can never be married — at least, not for many years. I cannot tell you more. Now you must go!"

       "I will not go," he said, doggedly, "unless you explain matters."

       "For shame, Emrys," she replied. "You are not such a coward as that. I have risked everything — have given up everything to release you — Have you no gratitude? Are you —–"

       "No, no, Myvanwy!" he broke in. "I will go."

       She passed quickly through the door, and he followed her. She locked the door behind her, and they made their way up the steps, and crept silently to the dining-room.

       Tredegar opened one of the windows. It was a less noisy means of exit than through the hall-door, which was bolted and barred and chained. Then he hesitated with his hand upon the window-sill. Myvanwy blew out the light, and they were in darkness. His great figure was silhouetted against the sky.

       "Myvanwy," he said, earnestly, "I owe you my life! I will keep it for you. I do not ask you to tell me what has come between us. I am sure that you have acted for the best."

       "I have acted for the best," she said in a low voice. "I am sure it is for the best, Emrys. You must leave England at once. Here is money," and she pulled out the bundle of notes. Tredegar looked at them doubtfully. "They have been lent to me," she continued, "to give to you."

       "I cannot take them," Tredegar said, knowing who had lent them. "You would not offer them, to me if you knew everything."

       "I know everything," she said; "and you must take these for my sake."

       Tredegar drew in his breath sharply, He seemed to see everything more clearly. Myvanwy had learnt all about Cynthia, and had thought it best to break off their engagement.

       "I never loved her, Myvanwy!" he said, hoarsely. "I have always been true to you!"

       "I know — I know," she said. "But you must go at once, Emrys, or someone will hear us. If you do not take these notes you will cause me lifelong misery, for you cannot get out of England without them."

       He took them without a word and placed them in his pocket.

       "You know that I love you, and always shall love you," he said.

       "I know," she answered. "Good-bye, Emrys," and she held out her hand.

       He seized it in his powerful grasp, and drawing her head close to him, bent down his bend to kiss her. She turned her face away, and sobbed as though her heart would break. She longed to fling her arms, round his neck, and her whole soul yearned for one last embrace, one long, passionate kiss — one fond good-bye. For a moment she hesitated, and the burden of her oath seemed light as a feather, to be blown away in the wind of passion. Then she shuddered, and shrank away from him with a low cry. He let go of her hand, and climbed out or the window.

       "Good-bye, dearest," he said.

       "Good-bye, Emrys!" she replied; "and God bless you!"

       He wrung her hand in silence, and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the shadow of some trees. She watched him till he had disappeared, and for more than a quarter of an hour she stood at the open window and stared at the place where he had vanished. Then she closed the window and crept quietly up to bed. In half an hour she had cried herself to sleep.

.       .       .       .       .       .       .      .

       For five days Tredegar made his way south, travelling by night, and sleeping in some lonely place by day. He dared not take the train, for he knew that every station would be watched. He was doubtful if it would be possible to put away from any port unobserved. His great stature marked him out everywhere amongst his fellow-men. His only hope seemed to lie in shipping as a stowaway to some French port, and thence booking a passage to South America. At any rate, he was furnished with the sinews of war, and could fight a hard and long battle against his enemies with some chance of success.

       But his mind was racked by a hundred doubts and fears that had no connection with his own safety. Hour after hour he tried to imagine how Myvanwy had obtained the keys to release him, and puzzled his brain for some explanation of her conduct. It had seemed as though all her love had suddenly died out. She had not given him a single loving word. She had shrunk from his embraces, and had hardly dared to look him in the face. And out of the chaos of thoughts two terrible suspicious rose uppermost in his mind. One, that Cynthia had told Myvanwy the whole story of those days in River street; and the other, that John Walroyd, loved Myvanwy, and that she had obtained the keys from him by promising to be his wife.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XVI. — (Continued.)

       He reached Cardiff in safety, but knew that the most perilous portion of his journey had now commenced. He purchased a sailor's suit in a low quarter of the town, shaved off his beard and moustache, and took a room in one of the lodging-houses frequented by the roughest sailors. Everyone stared at him, and he could not understand why he had not been recognised by the police, if any description of him had been forwarded to them. He did not know that the day after his departure, the monster had made an appearance in the Llynglas woods, and that he, Tredegar, was still supposed to be in the neighbourhood of Garth.

       The next evening, however, he found an old copy of the South Wales "Echo" in the bar of a public house, and the first headline that struck his eye was the following:—

"FURTHER DEVELOPMENT OF
THE CARDIGAN MYSTERY.
MURDER OF A JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.
DISAPPEARANCE OF HIS DAUGHTER."

       Then, as he read the matter underneath, his face went white as death, and he staggered against the wall of a house, clutching the paper, and trying to read it with trembling hands. His brain reeled as he read the horrible news, and the lines swam into a misty blackness. For Myvanwy Morgan had disappeared, and Mr. Morgan had been found dead. And the paper was four days old.

       That very night he concealed himself under the tarpaulin of a truck, and went rattling northwards again through the darkness.

 
CHAPTER XVII.
WALROYD HEARS AN ECHO
FROM THE PAST.

       The morning after Emrys Tredegar's escape four policemen came up to the Plas Tredegar to take the prisoner to Cardigan gaol. A sergeant was shown into Walroyd's study, and asked for the key of the cellar. Walroyd unlocked a small drawer in his writing table and taking out the key, handed it to the man.

       "I think I will come down with you," he said. He preferred to face the situation in the semi-darkness rather than in the full light of day.

       When they unlocked the door and found that the bird had flown, no one appeared more astounded and furious than John T. Walroyd. He swore loudly and denounced the police as incompetent duffers. He sent for the servants and accused them one after the other of abetting the prisoner's escape. He went back to his study and examined the lock of the drawer with a magnifying glass to see if it had been tampered with in the night. He theorised and cross-questioned and abused till the police thought he must have had a personal spite against Tredegar.

       Finally he sent three of them off to rouse the whole neighbourhood to a general hunt, and took the sergeant into his study.

       "Someone in the house has a duplicate of that key," he said sternly. "It is your duty to find it, sergeant. I give you a free hand."

       The sergeant laughed apologetically.

       "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but it has occurred to me that there may be some secret way out of the cellar, known to Mr. Tredegar. It is an old house, and I have heard of such things — stones that move when you press a knob and such like."

       "What about the handcuffs," Walroyd replied contemptuously. "They have been unlocked."

       "Very true," the man said, "but they may have been unlocked before he was shut up. He might have been furnished with a key. It would be easy to keep the handcuffs in their place. Then he could unfasten the chains off his ankles."

       "Incredible," said Walroyd.

       "Have you ever read the story of Jack Shepherd, sir," the sergeant asked. "Wonderful things do happen."

       "Well, go and look," Walroyd replied sharply, "and mark you, Evans, I shall not consider myself responsible for this escape. There has been some carelessness somewhere. And it is a scandalous thing that there is no prison house in a village of this size. Good morning."

       "I suppose no one could have got that key of yours, sir."

       "Impossible. The key of this drawer is always on my chain. The lock has not been tampered with. You can inspect it yourself."

       The sergeant inspected the lock, and then left the room. He made things very unpleasant in the house for a whole hour. Even the guests were subjected to a thorough cross-examination. Myvanwy almost broke down under the strain. It was well known that Tredegar was her lover, and Sergeant Evans did not spare her feelings. Cynthia alone was calm and collected. Her answers were enough to chill the ardour of the most enthusiastic detective. The sergeant left her with profuse apologies. But before he left he had a private word with Mr. Morgan and hinted that it would be the duty of the police to watch Llynglas.

       Hue and cry was raised over the whole country side, and that very evening a gigantic form resembling Emrys Tredegar was seen by three sailors in the Llynglas woods. It evaded the pursuit, however, and disappeared on the bog of Gogerddan. But its appearance was sufficient to confine the chase to the immediate neighbourhood of Garth.

       Cynthia Cantrip and her father left the Plas Tredegar after lunch. When he heard the news of his daughter's engagement, he chuckled, and blessed heaven for having so favoured his plans. His small keen mind saw through the whole business to the very core, and he blessed Emrys Tredegar and even hoped that he would escape from his pursuers. He put two and two together and realised that Tredegar's escape and Cynthia's engagement were not entirely unconnected.

       When Cynthia arrived home at their lodgings, she wept upstairs to her room, and lay down on her bed. Her head ached as though, it would split. Her mind circled dizzily through the events of the last twenty-four hours, and they spun past her like an endless shower of meteors. Among them in its turn came the incident of the half disc she had seen on Walroyd's writing-table. She had not till then given it a second thought. Other and more important matters had crowded it from her brain. She rose from her bed, and, unlocking a drawer, took out her jewel-case.

       One by one she drew out its sparkling contents till she came to the last tray. Then she lifted that, and there lay the half disc.

       She started back in surprise. She had only looked for it as a matter of form, for she could have sworn that it was in the possession of John Walroyd, but it was still in her jewel-case, and it was absolutely impossible that he could have replaced it.

       She gazed at it stupidly, as though it had been some strange apparition that she could not understand. Then slowly the truth began to dawn upon her. She recollected that there had been no chain on the one she had seen on Walroyd's table, and, as far as she could remember, there had not even been a hole by which it might have been attached to anything, but she could not be positive on this latter point. The truth, however, grew clearer and clearer, as she recalled the details. It was quite evident that the piece of gold she had seen the night before was the other half of the disc.

       Her brain reeled, as she tried to grasp this extraordinary coincidence, and to trace some connection between the owners of the two halves. But she could arrive at no definite conclusion. A hundred impossible ideas rose up before her, and vanished like ghosts before the breath of reason. Only one thing was clear in all her thoughts — the face of her dead husband. She resolved, however, to learn as much of the truth as John Walroyd would tell her, or she could gather from a careful scrutiny of his face. The very next afternoon she had promised to walk with him along the rocks. It was their first walk as acknowledged lovers, and she had looked forward to it with dread. But now she regarded it in a favourable light. She put the half disc in her pocket, and closing her jewel-case, she put it in the drawer.

       At 10.30 on the following morning John Walroyd called. His face was radiant with triumph. The whole village knew by now that he was engaged to Cynthia Cantrip, and even the children regarded him in a new light as he strode down the street.

       Cynthia was ready to go out when he arrived at the door. She met him in the passage, and gave him no opportunity of entering their sitting-room or indulging in any demonstration of affection. But the warm, strong clasp of his hand told her plainly that he longed to take her in his arms.

       They walked down the street together, and were the cynosure of every eye. The sailors lounging at their doorways grinned and spat contemplatively as they passed. The village girls nudged each other and winked. One old woman was sitting on her doorstep, under the mystic sign of "Temperance" which was inscribed on the lintel, apparently to show that the sweets and boot laces within were not intoxicating. She waved a withered hand to them, and mumbled some kindly blessing in Welsh. Cynthia felt as though she could sink into the ground with shame. It seemed like some cheap exhibition of herself before the common people. It was an indignity and an insult. Walroyd was perfectly calm. He nodded kindly here and there in answer to respectful salutations. Cynthia shot one or two angry glances at him. She felt like some captive woman led before the chariot of her conqueror. At last she could stand it no longer.

       "Let us go on the beach," she said. "It is so dusty here, and my head aches."

       "Certainly, dear," Walroyd answered. "But the tide has only just left the sands, and they are rather wet."

       "I prefer the wet to this dust," she said; "and the houses keep off the little breeze there is."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XVII. — (Continued.)

       They turned down a narrow passage between two cottages and crossed the shingle on to the sand. They cut across, this to where, the long reefs and plateaux of rock run out from the cliffs into, the water, and the wet seaweed glistened in the sunlight. The sand oozed under their boots as they walked. Here and there they passed through little rivulets still flowing down from the wet shingle above, and the water splashed up under their feet.

       Walroyd talked to Cynthia in quiet, even tones that gave no indication of the passionate nature of his thoughts. He spoke of general subjects, and touched on most of them in a spirit of cynical humour. Cynthia listened, and hardly answered him. But occasionally she laughed at some remark he made. Every now and then she would stop and pick up some shell from the sand. Shells had always fascinated Cynthia Cantrip, and on this particular day she sympathised with them. They had been cast, like human lives, out of the calm, deep security of the sea to be on the beach beneath the scorching scrutiny of the sea. Some were unharmed, some were divided from their twin mate and lay disconsolate, and some — were broken.

       At last they reached the rocks, and began to scramble over them towards the shore. Some were sharp and jagged and covered with limpets, while others lay buried a foot deep under the tangled masses of slippery weed. Among them lay clear, deep pools bright with anemones and waving fronds of green and crimson. Progress was difficult, and it was necessary for Cynthia to hold Walroyd's hand. She almost wished that she had continued along the road and then taken to the beach where the cliffs began to rise and curve round to the west.

       At last they reached the shingle, and Walroyd suggested that they should sit down under a tall, detached piece of rock. The tides had hollowed out the base of it into a smooth curve, which just fitted the lines of the human body. It was a spot much favoured by lovers; but Cynthia, who was almost a stranger to the neighbourhood, did not know that. She saw, however, that it was a very secluded place, and that the rock shut off all view of the village of Garth, where there were many telescopes and keen eyes. She shrank from it instinctively. Then she smiled. She had sold herself, and had no right to refuse to carry out her bargain. She was the betrothed wife of John Walroyd.

       They sat down under the shadow of the rock, and gazed out across the sea. Walroyd made no demonstration of affection. He had begun to realise that Cynthia regarded him as a stranger, even if she did not actually dislike him. He could afford to bide his time.

       It was a glorious morning, and two lovers might have revelled in the sunshine and the quiet of it all. The sea, blue and smooth, rippled silently to the sands, or gurgled gently as it swayed against the long line of rocks. A hot autumn haze hung over the distant circle, of hills, and suggested possibilities of Alpine heights beyond. Across the bar or the distant estuary lay a thin, white line of foam. Nothing moved but the sea, and two oyster-catchers running lightly over the rocks in search of food. The sky above was cloudless. A faint breeze came sighing across the waters, and stirred a few pieces of dry seaweed lying on the shore.

       But neither Walroyd nor Cynthia saw aught of the beauty of this peaceful scene. One had no thoughts for anything but the lovely woman by his side. To the other the very quiet of the place seemed but a mockery of the tumult in her own heart, and her subtle brain was turning over half a dozen schemes for breaking off her engagement without going back from her plighted word.

       For two or three minutes both were silent. Cynthia stirred the pebbles with her fingers as though searching for something. Walroyd did not look at her, but his fingers closed quietly over one of her hands. She did not withdraw it from his clasp. It was part of the price she had to pay.

       Then she looked at him in the face and suddenly turned her head away.

       "I have something to tell you," she said, in a hesitating voice. "Something I ought to have told you last night. I do not think you will misjudge me, and say that I obtained Tredegar's release, under false pretences."

       "What is it, dear?" he said gently: but at the same time he shot a quick glance of mistrust at her from under his dark eyebrows, and the grip of his fingers tightened on her hand.

       "I should have told you last night," she repeated, "but my mind was filled with so much else; and, after all, it will not matter much."

       She paused, and looked nervously round, as though she fancied that someone might be listening.

       'Well, Cynthia?" he said.

       "I hardly know how to tell you, she faltered. "I am so afraid you will be angry."

       He smiled reassuringly, as though such a thing were impossible.

       "Well," she continued, "in plain words, I am an impostor! I am supposed to be a single woman. As a matter of fact, I am a widow. I was married more than eight years ago. I had very good reasons for dropping my husband's name. It was no credit to anyone, I assure you."

       Walroyd received the news with perfect equanimity. It was no shock to him that this woman had had another husband. He had no love for the innocence of a girl. But he was determined to hear the truth.

       "Look me in the face, Cynthia," he said, still holding her hand.

       She turned, and her frank face met his keen took of inquiry.

       "You are telling me the truth?" he asked, quietly. "This is no fiction, invented in the hope that I shall release you from your word?"

       She flushed indignantly. Yet part of the accusation was true. She did hope that he would break off their engagement, and that is why she told him the truth.

       "It is all true," she replied.

       "Did you divorce your husband?" he asked.

       "No," she answered, bitterly; "he divorced himself. He left me to starve — in America."

       "In America?"

       "Yes. He subsequently went into partnership in a pawnbroker's business with two other men — brothers, I believe. Then all three sailed for South America. The ship was lost at sea."

       Walroyd started. But as Cynthia looked round at him, his face grew hard and inscrutable, as a stone sphinx. but she could feel his hand tremble, and the grip seemed to tighten on her fingers.

       "He is dead, then?" Walroyd asked, in an even voice.

       "He is supposed to he dead," she answered. "There were only two survivors of the wreck, and they, curiously enough, were his two partners. I was in America when they were brought back to England by the ship that picked them up. I read the story in the papers, and at once tried to communicate with them. But they had disappeared, and all trace of them was lost in London. It was, however, clear from their narrative, which they told at some length to the reporters, that they were the only survivors, and that they had seen the others perish with their own eyes."

       "It is, then, certain that your husband is dead?" Walroyd asked. "He will not return, like Enoch Arden, and find you married to another man."

       "He will not return," she answered, slowly.

       She was thinking of the broken piece of chain that Tredegar said that he had found on a dead man's wrist. She dared not speak of it to Walroyd.

       "He will not return," she repeated, "but I thought I ought to tell you all this in case — in case — anything did happen."

       "You are quite right to tell me, Cynthia," he replied. "Quite right. I will make inquiries, though as it happened so long ago I am afraid it will be too difficult to trace the survivors you spoke of. What was the name of the ship?"

       "The Wisahickon."

       "And the name of your husband — your name?"

       "Heatherbutt."

       "And the name of the survivors?"

       "Peterson — Henry and William Peterson."

       Walroyd made notes on a piece of paper. Then he turned away from Cynthia, and looked out across the sea. His face was an impenetrable mask. But one of the muscles of his upper lip twitched slightly, and if Cynthia could have seen into his dark eyes she would have gazed through them as through windows, into the blazing hell of his soul.

 
CHAPTER XVIII.
WILLIAM PETERSON, PAWNBROKER.

       They stayed for but a short time under the rock, and to Cynthia's in tense relief Walroyd did not again make love to her, either in word, or look, or act. He seemed preoccupied, and absorbed in thoughts that were evidently not pleasant. She ascribed this to her confession about her previous marriage, and secretly hoped that he would eventually release her from her engagement. As they reached the village street they saw signs of an unusual excitement. Little groups of women stood about, vociferating noisily in Welsh. It was noticeable, however, that there were no men to be seen. Even the placid sailors had disappeared from their doorsteps. Cynthia was seized with a sudden fear. She thought it possible that Tredegar had been captured.

       As they neared the first group of chatterers three women ran up to meet them, all speaking and gesticulating at once. Out of the chaos of words Walroyd and Cynthia gathered the horrible news. Mr. Morgan had been found in a dying condition by the path just under the Tredegar woods, and he had since expired, and his daughter Myvanwy had disappeared.

       Walroyd brushed them aside. He did not wait to hear the details.

       "I will see you home, Cynthia," he said, sternly, "and then I must give what help I can. Mr. Morgan and his daughter left my house seven o'clock last night, intending to walk to Llynglas. It is curious that this should have happened directly after Tredegar's release."

       "Very curious." she said, gently. "But it is hardly likely that he would harm the woman he loves or kill her father."

       "A man may do anything if he has lost his reason," replied Walroyd. "I am afraid I have committed a great crime on society in letting him loose. Yet there is no crime I would not commit — to win your love!"

       "He was innocent!" she cried, indignantly. "I know that Tredegar has had nothing to do with this or with the previous murders. And you know it, too, in your heart of hearts. If he was mad, why should he have spared your life? He has no reason to love you."

       "Madness comes in fits and starts," he said, doggedly. "A man may he sane one minute, and the next a raging lunatic. I fear I am responsibe for Mr. Morgan's death."

       "You will learn the truth some day," she replied; and did not speak another word until they reached her lodgings.

       Walroyd left her at the door with a mere shake of the hand and a somewhat, curt "good-night." Then he made his way quickly up the village to the Plas Tredegar. Directly he left Cynthia, the mask fell from his face. The lines deepened on his brow and about the corners of his mouth. He clenched his hands as he walked, and his whole appearance was that of a man whose soul was undergoing a great agony, and whose judgment wavers as to the course it should pursue. Yet his mind was far away from present events. He was not thinking of the awful tragedy which had just taken place. For all the time a devil walked by his side and whispered to him of the past, and he could not silence its voice.

       When he reached home he found the women servants white with terror, and unable to make intelligible replies to his hurried questions. The footman and butler were out with the other men of the village. He summoned one of the grooms and cross-questioned him. He learnt that at twelve o'clock that morning Mr. Morgan's body had been found in a ditch by the path across the bog, just where the Tredegar woods came to an end and the hillside opened out into fields of grass. He was still alive when found, and had been brought up to the Plas Tredegar, which was the nearest house. The doctor had taken the responsibility of ordering this to be done. He had tried to restore the unfortunate man to consciousness, but Mr. Morgan died in less than an hour after he had been brought in to the house.

       "And Miss Morgan?" Walroyd asked.

       "A messenger was sent over to Llynglas at once," the man replied. "She had not returned the night before. The servant at the house, sir, thought that both she and her father were staying another night here. I do not think any trace of her has been found at present. But they are searching every inch of the neighbourhood, and I expect they will come across the — come across her," and he shuddered.

       "Get a gun," said Walroyd, sharply, "and wait for me. You can shoot, can't you?"

       "Yes, sir, a bit."

       "Very well. In an hour's time be waiting for me at the front door. Have they hunted the woods round the house?"

       "The first place, sir; though not more than half a dozen would go into them."

       "Pshaw, the fools!" Walroyd said, angrily.

       "We will go through them again, Martin. You aren't afraid, are you?"

       The man laughed.

       "I ain't afraid, sir," he said "not of ghosts, at any rate."

       "You need be afraid of nothing if you can keep your head and shoot straight."

       Walroyd turned on his heel and went into the house. Then he rang the bell of the smoking-room. A white-faced maid entered.

       "Send Mrs. Davis to me," he said, "and tell her to waste no time."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XVIII. — (Continued.)

       In a few minutes the housekeeper, came in. Her eyelids were red as though she had been crying.

       "Where is Mr. Morgan?" asked Walroyd.

       "In the big Red Room, sir," she answered, faintly.

       "Thank you, Mrs. Davis," he said. "that is all I want to know. I am going up to look at him."

       "Lunch is waiting for you, sir," she said. "I hope you'll excuse the cooking, sir. We have all been rather upset."

       With these words she left the room, and Walroyd started to go upstairs. Then he suddenly changed his mind, and, going into the dining-room, rang the bell for lunch. He was an eminently practical man, and he did not know what might be awaiting him in the Red Room. It was possible that he might not care for any lunch after he had seen it.

       Afterwards he lit a cigar and went upstairs. Walroyd had lived many years in a part of the world where human life is held cheap, and it did not occur to him that it would be more reverent not to smoke in the presence of the dead.

       The room was in semi-darkness as he entered it. The red blinds were pulled down, and the lurid light that came through them only served to intensify the general gloominess of the apartment. Walroyd could see something lying on the bed, covered with a sheet. He walked over to the windows and drew up the blinds. the sunlight streamed into the room.

       Then he went back to the bed and drew down the sheet from the face. The eyes had been closed, but even through the white lids he seemed to see the expression of horror which would have been in keeping with the rest of the dead man's countenance. Walroyd touched the forehead. It was quite cold. Then he carefully examined the head and shoulders. There were five faint blue marks on the white throat, and a small piece of flesh had been torn away.

       He covered up the face again, drew down the blinds, and went downstairs. Martin was waiting for him in the porch. He went into his study, examined the revolver in his pocket — he never went out in those days of terror without this serviceable weapon — took half a dozen more cartridges from a box, and joined the groom outside. The latter carried a double-barrelled gun.

       The two men crossed the lawn, and passed through a small wicket gate into the woods. The sunlight filtered through the green arch of leaves overhead, and it was perfectly light. They could see clearly in every direction through the thin stems of the oaks.

       At first Walroyd looked carefully on the ground and among the undergrowth for some signs of anyone having passed through the wood. Then he remembered that half a dozen men had already been before him, and that any clue of this sort would be utterly useless. So he confined his attention to the distant view through the trees, in the hope that something might move across his line of vision. He made Martin walk in front. He was not quite sure of his groom's familiarity with a gun, and he did not want a charge of No. 5 shot in his back.

       The wood appeared to be entirely deserted and they saw nothing but a few rabbits and squirrels. At last, however, they came to the rope web which Tredegar had seen on the night he had followed Walroyd to the rocks. It had evidently been discovered by the people who had already searched the wood, for all the ropes had been cut, and it lay in a tangled lump on the ground. Walroyd picked it up and examined it. carefully, but he could make nothing of it, and it did not appear to him to have any connection with the man they were in search of. Indeed in his present stale it would hardly have conveyed anything to Tredegar's own mind, if he had not seen it before, for the knotted mass of ropes scarcely bore any resemblance to a spider's web.

       Then they came to the foot of the mound and Walroyd stopped.

       "Do you think he's down that old shaft, sir?" the groom whispered. "It would he a tidy hiding-place."

       "I should doubt it, Martin," Walroyd answered. "The shaft would be a hard place to get in and out of. But I will go up and have a look at it. You sit down here and keep careful watch." For reasons of his own John Walroyd did not want his groom to inspect, the shaft too carefully.

       He climbed up the dreary looking mound of grey rock and shale, and carefully examined the railings round the edge of the shaft. He noticed that in one place the wooden bars had been broken. He looked at the edges of one of the pieces. The fracture was recent, and the wood was still bright and yellow. Then he stepped over the frail barrier and inspected the mouth of the shaft.

       A yard from the edge there was a small pile of stones. They were arranged so as to appear a natural heap of debris. He lifted one or two of them, and the end of a steel bur appeared. It was driven deep into the ground. He showed no surprise, for the very good reason that he had placed it there himself. A few yards away a long coil of rope lay concealed under a large boulder. He would have liked to have had a look at that as well, and see if it had been discovered or disturbed, but it was impossible with Martin keeping watch below. The top of the mound was partly hidden from the groom's sight, and he could examine the bar without fear of detection. It showed signs of recent use. The steel was still bright and polished.

       Then he fell down on his knees and peered into the dark pit beneath him. The rugged sides, shored up here and there with balks of timber, and glistening with moisture that had oozed out of the earth, disappeared into absolute blackness. He listened attentively for any sound that might possibly come out from its depths, but the silence was only broken by the drip, drip of the water that trickled down its sides.

       Then he noticed that the shale on one side of the shaft had been furrowed and disturbed, and that several of the pieces of slate were marked with light grey lines as though they had been recently scratched with a knife. He took up one or two, and examining them, threw them impatiently down the shaft. They gave him no clue. It was even possible that one of the search party had been to the edge, and left the marks of his boot on the soft slate. He descended the slopes and rejoined the groom. The latter had neither seen nor heard anything during his master's absence. Then they continued their search through tho wood.

       Before they had gone a hundred yards, however, Martin, who was walking in front, stopped and picked up something from the ground. It was a piece of thin gold chain, about nine inches in length. One of the links was broken.

       Walroyd took it from his servant's hand and scrutinised it closely. It was of curious workmanship, every link being of a different design. It seemed to him that he had seen it before, or that he had at any rate come across one of a similar pattern. But he racked his brain in vain to remember to whom it had belonged. Then the idea struck him that it had probably belonged to Myvanwy Morgan, and had been torn off in her struggles. But he could not recollect for certain that he had ever seen it on her wrist. He put it in his pocket.

       The two men searched the wood till sunset, and then returned to the Plas Tredegar. There Walroyd learnt from the butler that no trace had been found of the missing girl, nor had they come across any signs of the murderer of Mr. Morgan.

       After dinner Walroyd lit a cigar, and strolled down the drive. He had decided to go to the Cantrips' house and ask Cynthia about the bracelet. If it had belonged to Myvanwy, she would probably recognise it. Women have a keen eye for trinkets.

       When he got to the foot of the hill he heard the distant throb of a motor along the Llanfihangel road, and saw a broad white fan of light sweeping swiftly through the darkness towards Garth.

       Before he reached the first house in the village, the machine came whizzing down the slope of the hill behind him. He stepped off the road on to the shingle. He had no great confidence in the accuracy of motor-drivers in the dark. And Garth was as black as a country lane. Hardly a light shone down all the long street. Most of the inhabitants went to bed at nine o'clock.

       But when the motor was fifty yards away from him, the throbbing suddenly slowed down, and died away in a dull rattle. The car ran up level with him and stopped. A man's voice was uplifted in a string of oaths, The whole motor industry was cursed in carefully selected language. The maker of that particular car was consigned, together with all his relations, to a place that was even hotter than the bearings of the engines.

       Walroyd smiled. He disliked motors, and an accident was pure pleasure to his soul. He stepped forward into the light of the Bleriot lamps. He was pretty sure that he could not be of the slightest use in tinkering with the machinery, and was in no danger of being asked to do so. The two occupants unhooked the side lamps and directed their rays into a smoking mass of machinery.

       "We must let her cool, sir," said the mechanician. Then he tried to start the engines, but unsuccessfully. Walroyd walked up to them. The smoke and smell of frizzling oil made an inferno of the autumn night.

       "Can I help you?" he said.

       "No. I thank you," said one of the men, with a strong American accent. "We've just got to let her cool down — well you might help us to move her to the nearest hotel. We stay here the night, I guess. Dawkins, you've' got to overhaul all that machinery before you go to bed."

       Then the stranger looked up. He was in darkness, but the light of the lamp he held was full in Walroyd's face. He started, and slowly scrutinised the latter's features. Then he turned to the mechanician. "Go right away, Hawkins," he said, "and got some of those fisherfolk to come and shove the car along, and just call at the hotel and say they can expect company, and an unholy smell in their yard for a bit."

       The man left. Then the stranger came close up to Walroyd.

       "Wal, Peterson," he said. "Who would have thought of seeing you here? How's the old shop?"

       Walroyd quickly placed his hand in his pocket, and touched the butt of his revolver. Then he smiled politely

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XIX.
THE GATHERING OF
THE STORM.

       "I am afraid, sir," Walroyd said, "that you have made a mistake. My name is not Peterson. I cannot see your face, but I do not think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance."

       The stranger for reply turned the light on his own face. He was a small red-haired man with a short squarely trimmed beard. He had no moustache or whiskers. and the thin firm line of his mouth would have given an air of puritan austerity to his features, if it had not been belied by the humorous twinkle in his eyes. He wore a black leather coat and cap. Walroyd looked at him as though trying hard to recollect who it might be. As a matter of fact he recognised him at the first glance.

       "Wal," said the man, "I guess you've seen enough. I'm sorry you have such a bad memory, Peterson. It's only eight years since we met, and I ain't altered one bit. Neither have you, for that matter. I'm doing real well, just now, and, you don't look very low down yourself."

       "I am most interested in your conversation," Walroyd answered in an insulting voice. "I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but shall be most happy to hear all about you."

       "I'm in motor cars now," said the little man, taking no notice of Walroyd's insolence, "and they are the thing. I can tell you, Peterson. I just travel about the country in this and get orders. Its a soft job, you bet. Let me sell you one. Buzz and Rattle, of Chicago! The first line in the business! They are bang up machines."

       "So I should say," Walroyd answered drily. "Are they very heavy to push along the roads?"

       "Bah, that's nothing. Just, a little overheated, Peterson, that's all. Might happen to any car. We've come two hundred miles to-day, Peterson."

       "I have no objection to the name of Peterson," said Walroyd; "but I think I prefer my own name better. It is Walroyd, if you care to know. Might I inquire yours?"

       "Dennis B. Riley," the little man replied with a grin. "I have had no reason to change it."

       "Of course not. It is a most excellent name."

       "It is a pity we can't change our faces, eh, Peterson," said Riley; "that is to say, if we want to. It would be most convenient."

       Walroyd could have strangled him where he stood, but he restrained himself.

       "I am satisfied with mine," he replied sarcastically.

       "Quite right," said Riley, once more throwing the light of the lantern on the other's face. "But I always thought that little mole on the left cheek, and that small scar under the right ear —–"

       "I have had enough of your impertinence, sir," broke in Walroyd, fairly losing his temper, "and I must leave you. If you are staying in the place, you will soon find out who I am, and you'll probably find yourself in gaol, if you go about insulting people in my position. I wish you good-night." With these words he turned on his heel and strode down the village.

       "Wal," said Riley, looking after his retreating form. "What's Bill Peterson up to anyway. No good, I reckon. I must ask about this Mr. Walroyd. Ha! ha! He's a peach, he is."

       Walroyd went down the street with hell in his heart. He had fairly controlled himself, till the little red-haired man had begun to enumerate the various marks on his face, which would always be indelible clues to his identity. He cursed fate which had brought him into the light of the lamp, before he had seen the other's face. If only it had been the other way about, he could have slipped away into the darkness, and kept, out of sight till the little fool had left the village, He wished now that he had told Cynthia his true name, and invented some plausible reason for changing it, she could scarcely blame him for Heatherbutt having been lost at sea. He could even have brought forward conclusive evidence of his death and have set her mind at rest on that point.

       She would probably have been grateful to him, but on the other hand, it was hardly likely that a friend and companion of her husband would find much favour in her eyes. At any rate it was impossible to tell her now. His previous concealment would excite suspicions in her mind, and she would suspect the worst. The truth must be kept from her at any cost. Riley must be silenced. He must be bought, if possible, but at any rate silenced.

       His mind was a wild tumult of schemes and fears. It was difficult to know what course to pursue. But before he reached the Cantrips' house, he resolved to see Riley again that night, and come to some arrangement with him before the fool blurted out anything. He guessed that Riley would not wittingly let out so valuable a secret. The little red-haired man was full of business instincts. The secret, if kept, was worth money, but if once told was valueless. Mr. Riley would know which side his bread was buttered, and if not — well, he would have to be taught. John Walroyd was a man who let nothing stand between him and his desire, if he was strong enough or clever enough to move it from his path. In his own mind he guaranteed the silence of Mr. Riley.

       He came to the door of the Cantrips' lodgings, and walked past it. A light was burning in the window of their sitting-room. He looked at his watch. If was nearly ten o'clock. Fifty yards further on he stopped, and hesitated whether to turn back or go on to the "Tredegar Arms" — the hotel, as Riley had called it. Personally, he was not much interested in the death of Mr. Morgan, or the disappearance of his daughter. Self-preservation is the first instinct of every animal, and he knew that he had to fight hard to preserve his good name. He decided to see Riley at once, and put the whole matter on a definite basis. He would not give the man a chance of blurting out the truth, under the influence of drink. He would meet him openly, and he flattered himself that he was a match for most, men, whether the battle was waged by subtlety or force. He walked back to the Cantrips' house, and looked longingly at the window. Then he walked swiftly down the road, and passing the "Tredegar Arms" reached a spot, where the houses on the sea side of the street came to an end.

       Then he lit another cigar, and looked out across the sea, trying to arrange his future plan of action. He saw nothing of the beauty of the night, the steely surface of the sea crossed with a long bar of moonlight, the faint stars in the dark blue vault overhead, the long sweep of black cliffs, the white fringe on the water's edge, the great solitude where the noblest part of man can stand face in face with the eternal — none of those things he saw; if he had seen them they would have had no meaning for him. He only looked into the seething fires of his own soul, and the very heavens seemed lurid with the flames.

       He waited for ten minutes, but there was no sign of Riley's motor coming down the road, in the far distance, at the end of the street, Walroyd could see the white light of the lamps, but they seemed to be motionless. He stamped his foot impatiently, and then decided to go in to the Cantrips' house for a few minutes. He was longing to see Cynthia. It seemed to him that probably he would not be able to have a quiet conversation with Riley for at least an hour. The man would want some food, and people are always more amenable after they have, fed. Riley, too, was a man who rarely went to bed before two o'clock in the morning, and there would be ample time that night to say all that was necessary. Yes, he would certainly see Cynthia. The mere desire to look upon her was stronger than any wish to find out the truth about the bracelet. It was possible — and he ground his teeth as he thought of it — that the dark cloud which was gathering on his horizon might one day shut her out altogether from his sight.

       He knocked at the door, and was admitted by the landlady's daughter. He found Cynthia and her father in the sitting-room. The former was engaged in the homely occupation of mending some socks, and the latter was reading the "Cambrian News," which contained a full and glaring account of Mr. Morgan's death

       Cynthia was annoyed at the interruption, but she concealed her feelings as best she could. Her father chuckled, and after a few minutes general conversation, yawned somewhat ostentatiously, and rose from his seat.

       "I'll give you young folks half an hour," he said, with a grin; "and then, Mr. Walroyd, you must go. Good night!"

       And, leaving the room, he went up to bed.

       Cynthia's face flushed with annoyance, and she sighed wearily, as though she, too, was longing to retire to her couch. Walroyd noticed her manner, and resolved to leave in ten minutes' time.

       "You must excuse this late visit, Cynthia," he said: "but I have come on a matter, of some importance."

       She smiled.

       "I am, of course, glad to see you," she replied; "but I am naturally much upset at what has happened to-day. I am afraid I shall not be very entertaining.

       "I and my groom have been searching the Tredegar woods all day," he continued, "in the hope of finding out something about Miss Morgan. We found this. Do you know if it belonged to her?"

       He took the bracelet out of his pocket and laid it on the table. Cynthia looked at it for a moment or two as if she had seen a ghost. Then she took it in her hand and examined it. Then suddenly her face went white as a sheet, and she rose to her feet with a cry of horror.

       "Where did you find it?" she said, hoarsely. "This is some trick — some devilry. It is —– Oh, my God! tell me the truth!"

       "You recognise it?" Walroyd replied. "I thought you might have seen it on her wrist. We found it, as I have just told you, in the Tredegar woods. I am afraid, though, that it will not be much of a clue."

       She passed one hand across her brow, as though trying to think, and held on to the table with the other. She looked as though she were going to fall, and Walroyd stepped forward and caught her in his arms.

       "My darling," he said tenderly, "don't be upset about it. Probably Myvanwy —–"

       She broke from his embrace, and faced him with horror in her eyes.

       "Myvanwy!" she cried. "This never belonged to Myvanwy Morgan. I gave this bracelet to my husband a month after we were married! He swore to wear it always for my sake!"

       It was now Walroyd's turn to grow pale. In a flash he had remembered where he had seen it before. Heatherbutt, in spite of all his heartless conduct towards his wife, had worn it round his wrist. How had it come here, in a Welsh village, from the body of a dead man? To Cynthia it was merely a relic of the, past, but to Walroyd it rose up like some spectre from a sea of blood, and he could almost fancy, that it was crimson in the lamplight. The man's nerves, however, were of iron, and his capacity for lying was boundless.

       "I don't think, Cynthia," he said after a pause, "that you need be horrified at the strange appearance of this thing. You say your husband deserted you? It is hardly likely that such a man would cherish any memento you may have given him. He probably sold it, and it has in some way passed into the possession of Myvanwy, or perhaps of someone else in the district. Besides, it is quite possible that the pattern is not unique."

       His words had a strange effect on the agitated woman. In a moment, her fear and horror vanished, and gave way to a flood of passionate wrath. Her eyes blazed, and her cheek flushed. She had no thought of pity for Myvanwy. She only saw one thing clearly. Tredegar had taken this bracelet from the wrist of her dead husband, and had given it to the girl he loved.

       Walroyd shrank from the awful look in her face. He did not know that all her wrath was for another man.

       "I am sorry if I have offended you," he said, taking up his hat and stick.

       "No, no!" she cried. "You do not understand. Why should I be offended with you? But please leave me. I am not myself to-night."

       He strode up to her, and caught her in his arms.

       "Good night!" he said, kissing her passionately. "Good night! And, Cynthia, if anything comes to separate us, remember that, whatever my faults, I have loved you!"

       He loosed her, and rushed out of the house like a madman. Horror was accumulating upon horror, and some strange mystery was arising from the past to overwhelm him. One thing, at any rate, he could do that night. He could square matters with Dennis Riley. He walked quickly to the Tredegar Arms and knocked at the door.

       He was shown into the small parlour at the back of the taproom. A fire blazed cheerfully in the grate, and the remains of supper were still on the table. Riley was seated in a plain wooden armchair, with a large cigar in his mouth. A glass of whisky-and-water was on another chair by his side. He was apparently wrapped in thought, for he started as Walroyd entered, and, turning round, blinked his eyes as though he could hardly believe what he saw. Then he rose to his feet with a smile.

       "Good evening, Mr. Walroyd," he said, with a slight accent on the name.

       Walroyd closed the door. His face was not pleasant to took upon, and Riley wondered if there was a poker in the fireplace, in case it might he wanted.

       "Good evening, Riley," he replied. "I want a word with you."

       "Sit down right here and talk," Riley answered, pointing to a chair. "And if a drink will help you any —–"

       "Yes, I will have a drink," Walroyd answered, seating himself in the chair.

       Riley poured out a stiff whisky-and-soda, and handed it to him.

       "Sorry they haven't got rye," he said, settling himself down before the fire.

       Walroyd took a long pull from the glass, and, taking a cigar from his case, leisurely cut off the end.

       "I must apologise for any rudeness this evening," Walroyd said, after an awkward pause. "But anyone might have been listening. I was, of course, only bluffing. I knew you as well as you knew me, Riley."

       The little man laughed.

       "What's the game, Pet—–"

       "Drop the name, Riley," Walroyd broke in sharply. "The game is that you have got to keep your mouth shut. I have no doubt you have asked the people here all about me. Possibly you may see that it would not be very pleasant for me if they learnt that I was living under an assumed name, and that I had been a pawnbroker."

       "I should say not. But why call yourself Walroyd?"

       "That is my own business. I have a very good reason for not calling myself Peterson. But that does not concern you. All you've got to do is to keep your mouth shut."

       "That is easy enough," Riley said, thoughtfully gazing at the smoke of his cigar.

       "Mark you, Riley," Walroyd continued, "I don't care a cent for people's opinions. I am rich, and even if it were known that I had been a pawnbroker, and that I had changed my name, I should get all the respect and flattery I wanted. But I am engaged to be married, and if the woman I love were to know of this, I should lose her.

       "I see. So you are going to settle down. Pet—Walroyd?"

       "I have been settling down," Walroyd replied. "I am a very wealthy man. I can afford a wife."

       Riley laughed.

       I don't want to spoil sport," he said. "But I shall make no promises."

       "What is your price?" Walroyd asked, curtly.

       "I don't blackmail," Riley answered; "I earn my money. I should like you to buy a motor-car."

       "Put me down for three," said Walroyd. "I shall want them if I once start driving."

       "You're the man I like to meet. I hear you have a fine house. I should like to stay with you a few days. I can teach you to drive the car. It's as easy as talking."

       "I shall be most pleased," Walroyd replied, in a rather dubious voice. "Come up to-morrow in time for lunch. You can take me for a ride in the afternoon. And you swear you will keep your mouth shut?"

       "I won't swear a thing," Riley said, pleasantly. "I am not making a price for my silence. I don't blackmail. So long as we are good friends — wal, one will do things to oblige a friend."

       "Very good, Riley," said Walroyd, rising to his feet. "And you come up to-morrow. I shall expect you to lunch. Good night!"

       Riley got up from his chair, and saw his visitor out of the house, shaking hands cordially with him before he left. Then he returned to the fireside, and the geniality died out of his face, and a look, of cunning came into his little eyes. He foresaw many pleasant things in the future.

       Walroyd walked quickly along the dark street, and up the hill to the Plas Tredegar. He kept his right hand in his pocket on the butt of his revolver, for he knew that he might have to be quick with it to save his life. But his thoughts were far away from the terror that overhung the whole neighbourhood. His mind was fixed on the shadow that was rising to darken his life, and a hundred fears spun round in his brain. Yet uppermost was a single thought. Dennis Riley must he silenced — at any cost!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XX.
THE SILENCE OF DENNIS RILEY

       The next morning, Riley appeared at the Plas Tredegar in time for lunch, and the mechanician took the motor round to the stables to overhaul it for the afternoon's run. Riley was proud of his machine, and wished it to look its best and run its smoothest when he was showing off it's paces before Walroyd.

       During lunch the two men talked over old times, and Walroyd told, on an average, about one lie in every minute. His long and cleverly constructed story of successful speculation made his guest's mouth water, and Riley began to regard him with reverence as one who had come out right on top."

       When they had finished their meal, they sat for a few minutes at the table and smoked their cigarettes, till the footman, came in and said that the motor was at the door.

       Walroyd put on a thick overcoat, and stood on the doorstop, regarding the machine somewhat doubtfully. It throbbed and shook as though it were going to fall to pieces. To an unpractised eye it did not appear a desirable conveyance. He took his seat by Riley. They decided to leave the mechanician at home. It was possible they might like to talk about things which it was not desirable for a third party to hear.

       Riley pulled over one of the levers, and the throbbing died away as the car glided down the drive.

       "How far can we go without stopping?" Walroyd asked.

       "Filled her tank up yesterday," Riley answered, "at Llanfihangel. She'll run near two hundred miles. Take you up to London if you like."

       "I shall be satisfied if we get home all right," Walroyd said, drily.

       But before they had gone three miles, his views on motors were considerably modified. Like most people who have a rooted objection to this form of locomotion he had never been in one in his life. He had always regarded them from the point of view of a man who has to get out of their way, and quiet his restive horses as they pass. To him they represented a certain amount of smell and dust, and a large amount of danger to all other traffic. But now as they swept along the smooth road, with less vibration than might be felt in a railway train, he saw that there was another side to the question. The sense of speed and power appealed to him. He was a man who liked to do things quickly, and to carry them through with a strong hand. This motor was the mechanical embodiment of his own nature. Woe betide anything that stood in its path. Yet he did not realise that in one essential thing it had the advantage of him. Its brakes were powerful enough to stop it in its headlong career.

       Before they had gone ten miles, he had become an enthusiast. Riley, who was a first-class driver, and knew his machine from the smallest nut to the largest piece of the frame work, gloried in exhibiting every phase, of its powers. Now he would send it spinning along the level road at its top speed, now he would run it up an incline of one in seven at twelve miles an hour; now he would take it down a long slope, till the air sang past them, and Walroyd felt as though he would be blown off his seat. Now he would bring it to a dead stop, or turn it round in the centre of the road, or take a sharp corner with an inch to spare. He displayed every trick and gambol that, was in it, and he showed the perfect control he had of its enormous powers, till to Walroyd it seemed almost like a living thing of intelligence and judgment.

       He explained the use of the levers and the steering gear and then allowed Walroyd to take his place and steer at the lowest speed along a straight open piece of road. Then he let him go on the second and third speeds, keeping one hand in readiness to come to his rescue. But Walroyd's nerve did not fail him, and after, five minutes he guided the machine with as much composure and confidence as though he had driven one for years.

       After that he was allowed to manipulate the levers, change the speeds, put on the brake, stop the car, and re-start it, till he appeared to have a thorough grasp of the subject. He thought the whole thing ridiculously easy, till Riley pointed out that he had just begun to learn his business, and that only a complete knowledge of the machinery would fit him to cope with any emergency or accident.

       However, the iron had entered into Walroyd's soul, and he gloried in his new found strength. The rush of the air and the hum of the machinery were music to him. He saw now that being driven in a car was nothing to the driving of it. It was the fact of controlling and guiding sixteen-horsepower of machinery that appealed to him. Already he saw infinite possibilities.

       In less than two and a-half hours they were fifty miles sway from Garth, and were in the very heart of the mountains. Some of the gradients had been one in five, and they had climbed over one road to a height of 2,000 feet. They stopped at a small inn, and had some bread and cheese and beer — all that the place could provide. The swift run through the mountain air had made them both as ravenous as wolves. But Riley would only allow a hurried meal. It was after half-past 5, and if they were to be back in time to dress for dinner, he would have to get every ounce of power out of the machine. He expressed his intention of driving himself, and Walroyd was not sorry to give up the control. The latter was not used to the strain, and he found that his hands were a bit shaky and that his eyes ached painfully.

       They sped through the purple mountains towards the sunset. The western sky flamed with gold, and behind them the light clouds hung like rosy feathers against the blue of the heavens. It was the loneliest part of Wales, and nothing could be seen but the interminable ranges of the hills, clothed with wood at the bases, and covered with rock and heather at their summits. But the wild and rugged grandeur of the scenery passed by unnoticed by the occupants of the ear. They crawled up the long slopes and spun down the long descents without giving a thought to what lay on either side of them. All Riley's attention was required for the car, which he was driving at a reckless speed, and Walroyd occupied his time in telling his companion about the long list of the Cardiganshire murders, and of the terror which lay over the whole countryside.

       "S'pose you're armed," Riley said when Walroyd came to the end of the narrative. "I ain't, I didn't reckon I'll want a gun in this part of the world."

       "Yes, I'm armed," Walroyd replied, putting his hand to his pocket. "But I don't think we'll need to shoot if we meet Tredegar. He won't run his head against this car."

       "I dunno," Riley answered. "We go pretty slowly up some of these hills; and he might board us. I reckon from all you say he might twist our necks if you didn't plug him."

       At last they reached the eastern side of the hills above Llynglas. This was the steepest gradient of the whole journey. The road rose in a straight line from the bottom to the summit, without a curve or angle to lessen, the steepness of the ascent. On either side of it were woods of oak and larch. Sheltered from the western gales, these trees had grown to a greater height and breadth than their less fortunate comrades on the western slopes over Llynglas. Even in the middle of summer the sun never shone on this side of the hill after 4 o'clock, and on this particular evening, late in the autumn, it was almost in darkness, though the top of the range behind glowed with light. Where the road passed over the summit, the trees were silhouetted against the crimson sky, but at the foot there was nothing but dull grey twilight.

       They ascended on the lowest speed, slowly but surely, though the engine seemed to require a little coaxing, and there was a faint squeak in the machinery that Riley was not at all pleased to hear.

       When they were half way up the slope the figure of a man showed dark against the sky at the toil of the hill. Then it appeared to descend on the other side, and vanished out of sight. Riley glanced nervously at Walroyd. His mind was full of the stories he had just heard.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XX. — (Continued.)

       "Might board us now, eh?" he said. "Wouldn't get hurt by the car, I reckon."

       Walroyd smiled, and pulling out his revolver, slid it back into his pocket. Riley sssmed reassured.

       "You were always handy with your gun, Peterson," he said.

       "I only wish I had a chance," Walroyd replied grimly.

       At last they reached the summit, and the broad panorama of sea and marsh lay before them. The sun had sunk to a half ball of red fire, and a mist was rising from the earth and sea. Riley stopped the car on a piece of level ground at the top. The engines began to throb and rattle.

       "Guess I'll light the lamps," he said. "We shall need them through these trees, and it'll be dark enough before we are home."

       He descended from the car, and struck a match. A steady breeze was blowing off the sea, and it came strongly over the top of the. hill. The match went out. Riley swore under his breath, and retreated behind the shelter of the car. Walroyd leant forward and opened the front of the lamps. Neither man saw a dusky figure creep out of the woods and crouch in the shadows by the side of the wood.

       Then suddenly something sprang out from the darkness, and grasped Riley in an iron embrace. Walroyd's hand went to his pocket and he leaned back over the seat with the revolver in his hand. An enormous figure stood out in the last glow of the sunset. It was brown from head to foot, and apparently covered with a mass of tawny hair. Walroyd saw that it was certainly not Emrys Tredegar. Riley's black figure wriggled like a stoat in a trap.

       "Shoot," he yelled; "for God's sake shoot."

       Walroyd levelled his revolver. Then, he smiled grimly, and placing the weapon on the seat, pulled a lever towards him. The car began to move slowly forward. Riley clutched at it with one hand, but it slid from his grasp. Then he screamed like a wounded animal.

       The car shot forward over the brow of the hill. Two hundred yards down the slope Walroyd applied the brakes, and brought it to a dead stop. He looked back and saw nothing. Then he heard a long wail of agony. He raised his revolver and fired six shots into the air. Then he released the brakes, and the machine dropped down the slope like a falling stone.

 
CHAPTER XXI.
THE OLD TREDEGAR LEAD MINE

       When Tredegar dropped off the luggage train, as it slowed down into Trethol Junction, the last light of day was glowing in the western horizon. He had been twenty-four hours in the truck, and had spent half the time in a siding thirty miles south of his destination. He had no clear conception of how he should act. He was a hunted man, and could not openly join any rescue party, or give any assistance in the search for Myvanwy.

       Before he left Cardiff he had bought, an evening paper, and had gathered from its columns that the missing girl had not yet been found, though every inch of the neighbourhood had been scoured, and every man within a radius of ten miles had given his services on her behalf.

       He read also of the death of Dennis Riley, and how John Walroyd had been carried down the hill on a runaway molor-car, which in his ignorance he could neither stop nor control, and how he had, at risk of losing the steering wheel, leant over the back and fired every barrel of his revolver at the murderer. There was a graphic account of the swift run down the hill in the dark, and a realistic picture of the man who knew nothing of motor-cars, steering the machine through the dusk at the rate of sixty miles an hour. eye-witnesses in Trethol described how he had shot past them like an arrow, crying out to them to go to the top of the hill and save a man from death.

       But this new horror made only a slight impression on Tredegar's mind. Myvanwy occupied all his thoughts. Perhaps at that very moment she was lying dead. Indeed it scarcely seemed possible that she could be alive after all these days. He hardly dared to think of how she might eventually be found. For the last twelve hours he had been in a living hell, and they had left a deeper mark on his face and character than all the past months of suffering and misery. His face was almost bloodless, and the lines on it were such as might have been graven on the face of an invalid after years of bodily agony. All through the long night he had lain on the rattling jolting truck, and faced the horrible thoughts which had crowded round him in the darkness, like fiends waiting to tear him in pieces. No single ray of hope had pierced the gloom. Yet he had resolved to find Myvanwy — dead or alive — and his own safety was nothing to her. If she were dead, he would avenge her — and avenge her terribly. The lust of blood was in his soul, and he swore that, even the innocent should suffer, if Myvanwy were dead.

       He crept unobserved from the railway line to the Llynglas woods. Before he started he had taken the precaution of filling all his pockets with food, and had even provided himself with a knapsack, which was stuffed to bursting point with bread and cold bacon and cheese. He did not know how long it would be before he could enter a shop and purchase anything, but he had not been able to quench his thirst for twenty-four hours. His mouth and throat were dry and burning. He made his way straight to the little waterfall in the woods, and lying down, drank deeply.

       When he had satisfied his craving, he ate some bread and cheese, took another draught of water from the stream, and set off through the woods in the darkness. He had made up his mind to skirt the open bog, and walk round by the hills and woods to the Plas Tredegar. There, if anywhere, he expected to find some traces of the monster — the homicidal maniac that he now believed him to be. It was even possible that he might get to close quarters with this half human beast. But first he must find Myvanwy — alive or dead — and then he could deal with the "Cardiganshire Terror" as the "South Wales Daily News" had termed it. He almost smiled as he thought of the phrase. It had been applied to himself, as the supposed murderer.

       He took two hours to reach the Tredegar woods. The moon was now up, but only a faint grey light filtered through the leaves overhead. It was difficult to see even the trunks of the trees, and it took much time and many fruitless searches to discover the shaft of the old Tredegar mine. It was very quiet in the heart, of the wood, and his footsteps seemed to crash in the silence. An owl hooted mournfully in the distance, but no other live thing seemed to be awake.

       At last, after a long and tiring search. Tredegar came to the foot of the mound, and retracing his steps a few yards, discovered the remnants of the well. His heart sank as he fingered the severed cords. "They have evidently searched the wood thoroughly," he said to himself, "and have found nothing — but this."

       He decided, however, to pass the night in the wood, and trust to fortune to reward his patience. He lay down in the shelter of some undergrowth close to the edge of the clearing, lit his pipe, and kept his eyes fixed on the tall grey mound that rose before him in the moonlight.

       He watched for an hour and saw nothing except the slim body of a fox slinking across the shale towards the Plas Tredegar. Then at last he heard a faint sound in the distance, as though something were moving stealthily through the wood. It was not continuous, but every now and then a twig would snap or a stone rattle, or there would be the swish of boughs being brushed aside. The noises came nearer and nearer, till at last he could judge the direction whence they came.

       In a few minutes' time a gigantic figure, crept, on all fours out of the wood into the moonlight, and began to scale the mound. Tredegar's heart stood still, and every muscle in his great body quivered. He longed to rush from his hiding-place, and grapple with this loathsome creature and tear it limb from limb. He swiftly counted up the number of its victims. Ten had already died in its grasp, and he shuddered as he thought that one more might yet be added to the list. He cursed the fate that had up to then prevented it from attacking him. He alone, of all the men in the district, could have met it on equal terms, and laughed at its ferocious strength. And as he saw it creeping up the bank of shale towards the mouth of the shaft he could hardly keep himself from following it and forcing it to fight for its life.

       He restrained himself, however. His business was to discover what had happened to Myvanwy, and not to destroy this monster till it had given him some clue to her fate. He watched it crawl to the top of the mound, for all the world like some gigantic crab or spider. There was something uncanny in this creature terrorising the whole of a county. A single well-aimed shot from a rifle or a gun would have killed it, and its gigantic strength would have availed it nothing. But it had appeared to have a charmed life, or else fortune had been with it, and its lack of intelligence had called forth the pity of the gods. In half a dozen instances it ought, in all human probability, to have been killed. But everything had fought on its side, and it still lived.

       Tredegar watched it crawl to a spot close to the mouth of the shaft and begin to scratch furiously among the stones. Then he saw it pull out something, and carry it to the top of the mound. Then it again stopped and flung a few bits of slate down the slope. A few moments afterwards it disappeared.

       He watched for five minutes and then crept cautiously up the bank. When he reached the summit he saw to his surprise that the end of a steel bar was protruding from the ground, and that a rope was attached to it, and that the rope trailed over the edge of the shaft, and disappeared into blackness.

       He listened for a minute or two, but heard nothing except the drip-drip of water down the walls of the shaft. The rope hung slack, and it was evident that whatever had descended by it had reached the bottom. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks to heaven. The murderer was in a trap. Tredegar had only to decide whether to wait till it appeared once more above ground, or to follow it into the bowels of the earth.

       He resolved to follow it, and swinging himself to the edge of the shaft, let himself down hand over hand till he reached the bottom and stood tinkle-deep in the water. Then he looked up, and saw a faint square of dark blue above him. Half a dozen stars glowed clear and bright in the sky, as though seen through a long telescope. He groped his way round the walls till he came to an opening. He remembered it well. More than once in his boyhood he had braved the ghostly terror of the dead miners, and had descended with a companion to the first passage of the old workings. They had never ventured very far into the mine, but he recollected that the experience had been glorious, and unique, and Mint, those days had been full to the brim with the wild adventures that they had imagined in such weird and unconventional surroundings.

       He moved cautiously down the tunnel, keeping one hand on the slimy wall, and on the alert, to catch the faintest sound. But he could hear nothing save the beating of his own heart, and the light scrape of his boots on the rock under his feet. He had a full box of wax matches in his pocket, but was afraid to strike one for fear of disclosing his presence.

       As far as he remembered, the tunnel ran for at least three hundred yards without joining any other passages, and he was in no danger of taking the wrong path.

       Then came the place where the great fall of rock had occurred in 1873. He had never penetrated beyond that fatal spot.

       At last his feet struck against a piece of loose rock lying on the floor of the tunnel, and he knew that he had reached the scene of the disaster. In a few seconds a pile of debris breast-high lay in his path. He stopped, and lit a match. It was hopeless to try and find his way any further without light.

       The feeble yellow flare showed a great mass or fallen rock stretching as far as the eye could reach. The roof above was ten feet higher than all the rest of the tunnel, and the floor was raised to within three feet of it. It had taken a hundred men ten days to move that top layer of rock and find a way into the workings two hundred yards beyond. Most of the victims had been starved to death. But some had been taken from the debris, and two had never been found. Tredegar shuddered as he thought that even then their bodies might be lying under those thousands of tons of slate.

       He crawled to the top of the heap, and moved along on his hands and knees. In places he had to lie down and wriggle along. He was sparing with his matches, and proceeded for the most part in darkness. He hoped he would not meet, his quarry till he had passed the scene of the disaster. It would have been an awkward place for a fight to the death.

       At last, however, he came to the end of his arduous task, and lit another match to accomplish his descent. As he did so something large and brown moved swiftly from under the shadow of a great mass of slate, and disappeared in the darkness beyond. Tredegar picked up a heavy stone and hurled it after the retreating figure. He heard his missile clatter against the wall of the tunnel. Then he descended to the level, and started of in pursuit.

       But the chase was hopeless from the first. Little tunnels began to diverge in every direction. Every now and then he stopped and lit a match. More than once he found himself, in some large chamber hollowed out from the rock, and half a dozen passages led from it in various directions. The pursuit was bewildering. In less than five minutes, he had lost all traces of the thing he pursued, and he listened in vain for any sound of footsteps.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXI. — (Continued.)

       Then he began to realise that his own position was not a very cheerful one. He had no idea, of the route he had taken. In his eagerness he had forgotten to mark out a path by which he might return. He was lost in a labyrinth of passages, and with no light but such as he could get from the fitful glare of a few matches.

       Tredegar's purpose, however, was strong, and he thought little of his own danger. He was amply provided with food, and water dripped from every crevice in the rock, he was determined to explore the place till starvation stared him in the face. Here, at any rate, was the thing he sought. It might escape him, but at least he would do his best to run it to earth. It was also possible that Myvanwy might be somewhere in these labyrinthine depths. But he thought in his own heart that he should find her dead.

       And so, hour after hour, he blundered on through the silence and the gloom, every now and then returning to the same spot, but never once coming back to the place where he had crossed the fallen rock. He neither saw nor heard anything. His stock of matches was almost exhausted, and he felt sick and tired. The atmosphere of the mine was none too good. At last he resolved to sit down and have something to eat.

       He made a hearty meal off bread and bacon. He had to tear off pieces of the latter with his teeth, as he had forgotten to bring a knife with him. But, for all that, he enjoyed the food, which put fresh strength into his weary brain and body. When he had finished, he groped his way once more through the blackness. In half an hour's time he came to a passage which seemed to descend. When he had proceeded along it for about two hundred yards, it turned suddenly to the left, and as he crept cautiously round the corner he saw a faint, glow of light, in the distance.

       He stopped and listened, but he could hear nothing. He took off his boots, and moved silently along the rocky floor. When he was within twenty yards of the light he saw that it came from the side of the rock, and seemed like the light of a candle. But, if so, the candle itself was hid from observation, either in a niche or round another corner.

       Then suddenly his foot went splash into a pool of water several inches deep, and the noise reverberated down the passages. Almost simultaneously the light went out. He cursed his carelessness, and running swiftly forward, came to a corner. Something stirred as he turned to the right, and he thought he heard the sound of breathing. He stretched out his arm, and, touching the wall, swept it lightly with his fingers as he moved. Then he encountered some hair, and at the same time a piercing shriek rang through the vault of the passage, and there was the thud of a falling body, and then silence,

       He struck a match, and saw a huddled heap at his feet. He leant down, and looked at the face. It was Myvanwy Morgan!

 
CHAPTER XXII.
THE PALACE OF THE DEAD.

       Tredegar found a lantern on the floor by her side, and, lighting it, placed it on a ledge of rock. He hurried back to the pool he had just put his foot into, and filling his sailor's cap with water, dashed some in the face of the unconscious girl. Then he fell on his knees and kissed her forehead. In a few minutes she opened her eyes and shivered. Then she stared at him, as though she could hardly believe her senses, and gave a little cry of surprise.

       "Emrys," she said, sitting up, and brushing back the wet hair from her face. "Emrys! Oh, thank God you have come to me! But how —– I thought you had left England? I do not understand. And my father?" And she looked eagerly into his face.

       "He is dead!" Tredegar replied, in a low voice. "I saw it in the papers. I saw, too, that you were missing. Do you think I could go after that? I returned at once; the paper was four days old when I saw it. Thank God I have come in time, and that I have found you. I thought — I hardly dared to hope —&#ndash;"

       "How long have I been here?" she broke in, struggling to her feet. "I have lost all count of time. It has been an endless night — hour after hour of darkness and fear. I think I should have killed myself if I had had the means to do so. I do not know where I am. I have wandered . miles and miles in this tomb, seeking for some glimmer of light. Oh, it has been awful!"

       And she buried her face in her hands.

       Tredegar stepped towards her and made as though he would take her in his arms and shield her from all the terrors she had imagined. But she shrank from him, and looked at him piteously.

       "No, Emrys," she said, faintly. "All that is past! But where am I?"

       "You are in the old Tredegar lead mine," he answered, coldly. "The shaft is in the woods by the house." And he told her how he had followed the murderer and lost his way in the darkness. "And you, Myvanwy?" he asked, when he had concluded his narrative, "How did you come here?"

       "I cannot speak of what I saw that evening," she said. "It is too horrible! After it — after my father — I was seized, and only prayed I might die without pain. Then I fainted, and remember no more till I woke up in the darkness. Fortunately, I had a box of matches in my pocket, and lighting them one after the other I tried to make my way out of these endless passages and galleries and caverns. Every moment I expected to see the monster that had killed my father. Every drop of water that fell from the roof, and every flake of rock that tinkled to the ground concentrated a year of agony into the space of a second. In the last few days I have died a dozen deaths. Oh, Emrys, thank God that you have come! — though when you touched my hair I thought it was —–"

       "But food?" he said, hurriedly opening his knapsack. "I have some here. How have you existed?"

       "I will tell you," she continued; "it almost seems like a miracle. In the course of my wanderings I came to a high ledge on the wall of one of the caverns. I thought it would be a good place to conceal myself, and, after many attempts, succeeded in getting up to it. There, to my surprise, I found a lantern, half a dozen candles, a store of matches, and a large stock of provisions — tinned and potted meats, biscuits, &c, I could have lived here for a month."

       "I don't think it in an interposition of providence," Emrys answered slowly.

       He was thinking of Walroyd's visits to the shaft, and when he had put two and two together the whole thing seemed very far short of a miracle.

       "Where is this food?" he asked, after a pause.

       "I will show you," she replied. "It is not far from here. In spite of all I have gone through, I have kept my wits about me. I have marked the rock every twenty yards, and can find my way about. I cannot understand, though, why I have not been able to find any way of escape from this horrible dungeon."

       She led the way to the ledge, stopping every minute to examine the wall of the passage, and find the large crosses she had scratched on the stone. When they reached the spot, Tredegar examined the store of provisions. He found a tin-opener and two knives, but nothing that would give any clue to the person who had placed them there. Then he opened one of the biscuit tins. It was labelled "Osborne," but contained "Bath Olivers," and he suddenly recollected that the only night he had ever dined with the Walroyds they had had these biscuits with their cheese, he also remembered John Walroyd saying that it was the only English biscuit he really cared for.

       He decided to tell Myvanwy all he knew about Walroyd, and he did so in as few words as possible. When he had finished his story she shook her head, and looked at him as though asking for some explanation. He was silent, and appeared to be thinking of some possible solution to the mystery.

       "I don't understand," Myvanwy said. "It does not seem to me that Walroyd could have any possible business in this place. And I am sure that no one would come here for pleasure. The darkness, the silence, and the awful terror which lies hidden somewhere in these depths —– Oh, Emrys, if we should meet it! I cannot describe to you the horrible fear I have of it!"

       "I ask nothing better than to meet it," Tredegar replied, grimly. "I came here, first on the chance of finding you, and then to get to close quarters with this monster. My innocence cannot be established till it is captured or killed. I intend to kill it! I thank God that he has given me the strength to do so. You are not afraid of it, Myvanwy, when you are with me?"

       She looked for a moment on his gigantic form, and smiled.

       "No, Emrys," she replied, "I am not afraid — now — with you. But what is it? A man or a beast? How did it come here?"

       Emrys was silent. He did not wish her to know the truth. The secret of this creature's identity could never be confided to any living soul. He owed that much to Cynthia.

       "Have you no views on the subject?" she asked, after a pause.

       "Yes," he answered; "I think that it is human — a homicidal maniac. But it has sunk to the level of a beast, and must be regarded as such. However, we are not concerned with it till it shows itself. Our first business is to get out of here — for you to get out of here. I shall return when you ere safe. I have my work yet to do."

       They set off on their search. The lantern burned but feebly in the close atmosphere, and they could only see half a dozen yards in front of them. Every twenty paces they stopped and made a cross on the rock with a piece of sharp stone, They hardly spoke to each other. Myvanwy's face was wan and pinched after all the terrors she had experienced, and she was almost too tired to drag her feet along. Tredegar's thoughts were none too pleasant, though he tried to conceal the bitterness of them from Myvanwy. He did not know what had come between them, but he felt that the occasion called for some display of affection, and that whatever laws Myvanwy had made unto herself should have been relaxed under the circumstances. She had stood face to face with a horrible death, and the sudden reaction would have excused a departure from the course she had marked out for herself. He thought bitterly that if she had any real affection for him she would have flung herself into his arms, and given way at least for a moment to the dictates of her heart.

       From time to time she looked at him nervously, and made as though she would speak but she dared not trust herself, and they wandered through the long galleries and passages in silence.

       After an hour's fruitless search, they came to a part of the mine which neither of them remembered to have passed through before. Myvanwy was certain on this point, for there were no crosses on the walls. Tredegar could not be quite so sure, as he had made most of his exploration in darkness. It was a high cavern, so high that the feeble light of the lantern could not penetrate to the roof. They crossed it, and came to a narrow tunnel on the far side.

       Then suddenly a cool draught came up from the dark entrance, and the candle in the lantern flickered.

       "There is some communication with the open air here," said Tredegar. "My word! what a relief to be able to breathe."

       They stopped for a moment, and, peering down the passage, drank in the fresh breeze. Then they proceeded through the archway.

       The tunnel was very narrow, and sloped rapidly downwards. The roof glistened with moisture, and there appeared to be a crystalline deposit on the walls. Tredegar scraped off a little of it with his nail, and put his linger in his mouth. It tasted of salt, and he guessed that this part of the workings ran under the sea. There was, however, no sign of any lead ore, and he feared that it might prove to be a cul-de-sac which had been abandoned by the miners in disgust.

       However, as they proceeded down into the bowels of the earth, the current of air seemed to increase in volume, and Tredegar fancied that he could scent the salt breezes of the sea. It appeared as though they must be nearing an opening of some sort.

       At last they came to a small heap of broken rock, and beyond it the tunnel narrowed so considerably that Tredegar could hardly squeeze his gigantic frame between the two sides of it. The floor was two feet deep in debris, and the roof was so low that he had to bend almost double to pass under it. He stopped and inspected the walls with the lantern, he gave a low whistle of surprise.

       "This has been excavated quite recently," he said, turning to Myvanwy. "Not more than a year ago, at any rate. I should like to discover who has done it, and why it has been done."

       He moved on a few paces, and then suddenly he stopped. The feeble light of the lantern showed nothing but a dark abyss before them. He shrank back from the edge, and told Myvanwy to stand still. Then he crept cautiously forward on his hands and knees, and saw that a long flight of rudely excavated stone steps ran sideways down the face of the precipice. The ground appeared to be some forty feet below them, and there was a glimmer of white at the bottom when the lantern was directed downwards into the darkness.

       "Take hold of my hand, Myvanwy," Tredegar said, "and keep close to the wall. You will be quite safe. I will go first. Or I will carry you if you like."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXII. — (Continued.)

       "I would rather hold your hand," Myvanwy replied. "I am not afraid."

       The two descended cautiously step by step till they reached the bottom, and their feet sank deep into a layer of fine white sand. Tredegar stooped and a picked up a handful. It was full of broken pieces of shell and dried sea-weed, and it was so dry that it ran out of between his fingers before he had time to thoroughly examine it. Then he looked carefully round, and saw what he quite expected to see — innumerable footprints crossing the sand in every direction.

       They walked along by the wall, and noticed that the bottom part of it was hollowed out as though by the action of the sea. Every now and then they came across small round pebbles and boulders. It was quite evident that at some distant period the ocean had flowed into this wide cavern.

       When they had gone about fifty yards they both stopped and looked at each other in amazement. For hewn out in the wall of rock there was a low archway, and set deep in this was a door of rough dark wood, heavily clamped with iron.

       Tredegar seized a rusty iron handle and turned it. But the door did not open. Then he threw all his gigantic weight against it, but it did not give an inch, though they heard the hinges creak and the lock rattle in its socket.

       "I most break it open," he said, looking rather doubtfully at the solid mass of oak and iron. "You had better stand away, Myvanwy."

       She retreated a few paces; and Tredegar, picking up a boulder that must have weighed nearly two hundredweight, hurled it with all his force at the lock. The cavern reverberated with the crash, and the missile split into two pieces. A huge dent in the wood and the plate of the lock, crumpled and torn like a piece of paper, showed the fearful strength of the blow. But the lock itself still held, though one of the timbers of this door had cracked in the middle and, the top half had been driven an inch inwards.

       Tredegar took up another boulder from the soft sand, and sent it spinning against the other side of the door with such force that the stone crumbled into a hundred fragments, and the hinges gave way, tearing out the staples from the solid rock. Then he went up to the door, and catching hold of it with both hands, literally wrenched the timber off the lock and flung it out into the darkness beyond.

       Then they both stepped through the opening. In front of them loomed another huge cavern, and the light of the lamp showed a massive pillar rising from the floor and disappearing in the darkness above. Tredegar's foot struck something hard, which was half-buried in the sand. He stooped and uncovered it, and then tried to bury it again before Myvanwy could catch a glimpse of its smooth, yellow surface. It was a human skull, but he need not have taken the trouble to conceal it, for as far as the yellow light of the lantern shone, the whole floor was dotted with them, and human bones stuck out from the sand like sticks in every direction.

       Myvanwy cried out aloud in horror, and turned her eyes away from the ghastly scene to the walls of the cavern.

       Tredegar threw the light of the lantern upon them, and they saw niche after niche cut in the rock, and stretching away tier after tier into the darkness. And in each niche there was a perfect skeleton lying on its back, with its arms folded across its breast, and its hollow eyes staring at the rocky canopy above it.

       For a few moments Myvanwy and Tredegar neither moved nor spoke, but gazed in silence on the awful spectacle before them. The dim light of the lantern intensified the horror of the scene. It would have been sufficiently gruesome in broad daylight, but the feeble yellow flame that was almost swallowed up in the darkness lent an air of mystery to the whole picture and suggested sights even more terrible in the gloom beyond.

       Then Tredegar laughed, and the sound of his laughter echoed and re-echoed through the cavern, till it seemed as though he were being mimicked by a hundred voices of the dead.

       "I don't think they'll hurt us," he said. "It's not worse than the catacombs at Rome must have been. I should think it would be most interesting to an antiquarian. I wonder who they are and how they got here? Ancient Britons, I expect. Perhaps some of our ancestors, Myvanwy."

       "Don't jest, Emrys," she replied gravely. "I think it is terrible!" and she shuddered.

       "Well, we are not concerned with them, Myvanwy. Our business is to get out of here. We must be near an opening. Do you notice how cool the air is? One can almost smell the sea."

       "Let us go on," she said, hurriedly. "Let us get out as quickly as possible."

       They proceeded slowly along by the wall of the cavern, following the line of a numerous footprints in the sand. It was evident that someone had passed to and fro several times in this direction. Myvanwy kept her eyes on the ground, picking her way carefully among the bones and skulls. But Tredegar scrutinised the niches in the hope of finding some clue to their history and origin. When they had gore about a hundred yards he stopped and examined one of them more closely. It was almost twice the size of the others, and its edges were decorated with a rude border of scroll work and fantastic symbols.

       He held the lantern close up to it, and then gave an exclamation of surprise. In the centre of the top border, and surrounded by a wreath of what might have been oak leaves, there was carved the same strange symbol which he had seen on the half disc of gold — the same, too, as that which had been engraved on Mr. Morgan's ring — a right-angled triangle, with the right angle at the centre of the circle.

       The circumstance was so extraordinary that for the moment all other thoughts passed out of his mind. He called Myvanwy's attention to it, and she, too, forgot the horrors of the place in her amazement. Neither of them could trace any connection between these catacombs and a curio which had been picked up on a lonely Pacific island. Myvanwy regarded it as a curious coincidence; but Tredegar — who knew, at any rate, to whom the disc had once belonged — saw only another link in the mysterious chain of circumstances which was being slowly forged about his life.

 
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE TREASURES OF TEMAWR.

       At this point Tredegar noticed that the footprints which had hitherto kept close to the wall of the cavern, now branched off at right angles and disappeared into the central darkness. He decided to follow them, and they turned their backs on the long tiers of tombs and made their way through the vast open grave of the less honoured dead.

       Every twenty yards a gigantic column, cut out apparently, from the solid rock, rose up from the sand into the darkness above. These columns, which were nearly twelve feet in diameter, varied considerably in design. Some were roughly hewn, and not oven chiselled down to a circular form; others were smooth, and richly ornamented with grotesque carving. In all the formal decorations the mystic circle and triangle played a prominent part. But here and there were rude attempts at pictures, superior indeed to the conventional designs of the Egyptians, but evidently conceived and executed on traditional lines. Most of them were of a maritime nature — ships and fish floating stiffly on the top of very solid water; oars, ropes, anchors, such as an intelligent child of seven might draw on its slate; occasionally, too, the grim representation of skulls and bones, and here and there a whole skeleton in a fantastic attitude.

       At last something else loomed through the darkness, and as they drew near to it they saw that it was a small temple, supported by eight thick columns of jasper. The canopy above was richly carved, and towered up so high that its summit was lost to sight in the gloom. An inscription ran along the face of it.

       They passed between two of the pillars, and saw what looked like a gigantic coffin of white marble. The slab on the top, nearly a foot in thickness, was broken in two pieces, and one half lay on the ground.

       Tredegar went up to it, and directed the rays of the lantern into the interior. It was half full of a dull grey dust, and out of this protruded a few pieces of black metal, which looked more like scrap iron than anything else.

       Tredegar took hold of one of the pieces, and pulled it out from the debris. Then, lo and behold! as it came into the light of the lamp it flushed with all the colours of the rainbow and glittered like a circlet of fire. It was studded with jewels — with diamonds, with rubies, with sapphires, with emeralds, lying on its dull surface like a crest of light on the dark waters of the sea.

       Tredegar inspected it closely. It was circular in form, and had probably been a collar, for the neck. He took out a penknife and scraped the dull surface, till there was the yellow glint of metal underneath. It was undoubtedly of solid gold, and indeed, the magnificent jewels which studded it would hardly have been placed in a meaner setting.

       Then Tredegar set the lantern on the marble slab, and they both rummaged in the dust of the tomb and drew out one thing after another, till the floor was littered with treasure that might have provided the ransom of a dozen kings. Cups, vases, bracelets, chains, rings, ornaments, and vessels of every shape and description, all of gold, and most of them crusted with jewels. The sandy floor beside the tomb glittered like a galaxy of coloured stars. But more than once they drew out something of less weight that neither sparkled nor shone, and Myvanwy cried with horror as the lamp fell on the dull surface. For the bones of a dead man were mingled with what might have been the treasures of the empire.

       In the excitement of the moment they forgot everything else, and they had not noticed that the candle in the lantern had burnt almost to the socket, and that in a few minutes they would be in darkness.

       At last the tomb only contained a thick layer of dull grey dust. They passed their hands through this again and again, but found nothing else. Tredegar looked at the glittering heap upon the floor and smiled.

       "Do you realise what this means, Myvanwy?" he said.

       "It means a lot of money," she replied, with a sigh.

       "It means," he said, triumphantly "that after the Government have taken their share of this treasure trove I shall be a rich man, and —–"

       He stopped. In the excitement he had forgotten all that had happened.

       "I am glad," Myvanwy said, turning her face away from the light. "I am very glad, Emrys."

       "And you, Myvanwy?" he cried, trying to take her hand.

       "I shall still be as I am now," she answered, faintly, moving a little away from him. "But I am glad — for your sake."

       Tredegar frowned, and kicked the heap of gold and jewels. A gemmed cup flew tinkling against the marble slab.

       "I beg your pardon," he said, brusquely. "I had forgotten. I will not refer to the future. But with reference to the past, do you see what this means?"

       Myvanwy shook her head. Indeed, she was not trying to think of the past. The dull future occupied all her mind.

       "The Walroyds!" Tredegar said. "This explains much. The tomb is only half full. This is the secret, of their wealth, but heaven knows how they discovered it. In the last hour much has been made plain to me. Walroyd's visits to the old lead mine. Mr. Cantrip's relations with his employer. Walroyd's eagerness to buy the property. I understand everything. But I expect he has taken the last penny from this bank of his. What remains is for me — and the Government. I fancy the latter will have a considerable bill against Mr. Walroyd, and that —–"

       "Oh, Emrys," she broke in hurriedly, "the lantern!"

       He walked round and noticed that the light had grown very low and that it had begun to flicker ominously.

       "Great heavens!" he cried: "we must go at once."

       "I fancy we are too late," she replied.

       "I have two boxes of matches," he said; "we must got along with these. Come along at once, Myvanwy, we must make our way forward. It is hopeless to go back now. There must be an opening the other side of the cavern. At any rate it is our only chance."

       They hurried off from the tomb, but before they had gone half a dozen yards, the light leapt up in a last flicker, and they were in darkness.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXIII. — (Continued.)

       Tredegar lit a match, but the cool current of air that swept through the cavern blew it out. He lit another, and yet another, shielding them with his hand, but the light was so uncertain and fitful that it was almost worse than useless, and served only to intensify the darkness."

       At last Tredegar stopped, and laid his hand on Myvanwy's arm.

       "This is hopeless," he said, "and we are only wasting the matches. I have to cover them with my hand, and they give no light at all. We will return."

       They groped their way back in the darkness, shuffling silently through the sand, and wandering from pillar to pillar till they reached the tomb, more by good fortune than by any definite knowledge of the route.

       Then suddenly a small speck of light gleamed in the darkness, and moved slowly towards them. Tredegar whispered to Myvanwy, and they both crept away from the tomb and hid behind one of the great columns which supported the roof of the cavern. The light disappeared every now and then, but it came nearer and nearer, and in a few minutes they heard the sound of soft footsteps in the sand, and the occasional click of a boot against the bones on the ground.

       The semi-circle of light still advanced, but all was darkness behind it, and it was not until it was within a few yards of them that they saw the shadowy figure of the man that carried it. He advanced to the tomb, and placing a lantern on the marble slab, leant over the side and peered into the vault. Then for the first time the light fell on his features. It was John T. Walroyd.

       They saw a sudden look of rage and fear cross his face. The lantern was snatched from the slab, and its light thrown on the heap of gold and jewels, and then round in a circle through the darkness, as though in the hope of discovering who had been meddling with the treasure. Tredegar and Myvanwy drew back their heads sharply before the light fell on the pillar behind which they were concealed.

       Then Walroyd looked for a moment at the footprints in the sand, and drawing out his revolver, walked straight up to them, and flashed the lantern in their faces. Tredegar would have sprung upon him there and then and risked the chance of being shot; but Myvanwy laid one hand on his arm and implored him to restrain himself.

       For a few seconds neither of the three spoke. Then Walroyd drew back a couple of paces, and smiled sardonically.

       "We have been looking everywhere for you, Miss Morgan," he said in a tone of repressed fury. "I am glad to find you have been in such safe hands — with the murderer of your father."

       "You infernal scoundrel," cried Tredegar, hoarsely. "Do you mean to suggest that Miss Morgan has been with me for the last few days?"

       "Appearances are rather against you," Walroyd replied, "but in any case, you may consider yourself my prisoner. I will, take care that you do not escape again."

       Tredegar crouched low behind the pillar, and his great muscles quivered like the sinews of a wild beast about to spring. But again Myvanwy whispered in his ear. She know that Walroyd could hardly miss him at that distance, and that the American's eye was as keen as his hand was sure.

       "You blackguard!" Tredegar said, "you had better not let me get with in arm's length of you, or I will choke the life out of you."

       "I will take your advice," Walroyd replied. "You are not likely to get much closer to me than you are at present."

       "What do you intend to do?" asked Tredegar, wishing to gain time, while he thought, out some scheme for depriving Walroyd of his weapon.

       "I have told you. You are my prisoner."

       "I have a proposition to make," Tredegar replied, "both I and Miss Morgan know your secret. If you will conduct us out of this place, and let me go free, and say nothing of what has happened, we will keep silence about the treasure and undertake not to interfere with your disposal of it."

       Walroyd did not answer, but he kept his keen eyes on Tredegar's face and raised his revolver a little so us to cover his heart. Walroyd's own face was in darkness, and neither Tredegar nor Myvanwy could read his thoughts. Then Walroyd laughed.

       "It is for me to make terms," he said, "and my terms are these. Unless you both swear a solemn oath to say nothing of the treasure, I shall ensure your silence in my own way."

       "And that way is?" Tredegar, queried.

       Walroyd shrugged his shoulders. "When is a man most silent?" he asked.

       "You mean that you will kill us both," Tredegar said. "I have no doubt you would shoot me like you would a dog. But Miss Morgan?' "I would never offer violence to a lady," he replied, courteously. "But I am afraid I should be compelled to decline to show Miss Morgan the way, out of the cavern. And she doubtless would not wish to leave you."

       Tredegar's blood ran cold with horror. In a moment of time he saw the terrible fate of the woman he loved, condemned to linger out her life in darkness with no companionship but his own dead body. A more fiendish scheme had never been designed by man. It would be a thousand times worse than death. Tredegar prayed that he might restrain himself, and keep a cool head. For he knew now that whatever he swore Walroyd would kill them both. The oath would be a farce. Walroyd knew well enough that Tredegar's innocence was already on the way to be proved, that he himself had described the murderer of Dennis Riley, and that those who had previously been hunting for Emrys Tredegar were now in search of another man.

       But Walroyd supposed that Tredegar had been hiding in the lead mine, and that he was ignorant of the circumstances attending Riley's death. So he had proposed an alternative bargain, in the hope that Tredegar would refuse, and that the murder would not have to be done in cold blood. Tredegar was not prepared to enlighten him on this point.

       "I think," he said, after a pause, "that you would run rather a risk. Miss Morgan might find her way out, and then — well?"

       "Miss Morgan might reach the bottom of the shaft," Walroyd replied. "But I think I could put two or three obstacles in her way. And, to tell you the truth, Tredegar, I have made up my mind to have the shaft covered over. It is dangerous; I should like to know your decision as soon as possible."

       Tredegar had made up his mind. Twelve feet of rock stood between him and Walroyd. He saw the folly of leaving his position and marching tamely in front of another man's revolver till such time as the latter should think fit to put a bullet in his back. The darkness was all in his favour. Walroyd's lantern would only betray his own whereabouts. The advantage would be with the pursued, who could slip from pillar to pillar, and chance a stray shot till an opportunity offered itself. His only fear was for Myvanwy. He drew her close to him and whispered in her ear.

       "He means to kill us both in any case," he said. "It is better to have it out with him now. I will lead him a pretty dance through the darkness. I run no risk. Directly he follows me away from here, slip into the tomb and lie down. You will be safe there from a chance bullet."

       "If he kills you!" she whispered, in terror.

       "It's not likely," Tredegar answered. "Be brave, my darling." He drew her closer still to him, so that a strand of her hair touched his cheek, but he could feel her shrink away, from him, and he did not kiss her.

       "Well," said Walroyd, sharply. "Have you decided?"

       For answer Tredegar slipped out swiftly from under the shadow of the pillar, and crossing, the line of light, disappeared in the darkness. Walroyd's eye and hand were quick, and the revolver spoke twice, and two bullets spattered against a distant pillar. Then he realised the situation, and resolved not, to fire again till Tredegar had come to close quarters with him. As he moved forward in pursuit, Myvanwy slipped across behind him, and groped about for the tomb. Then she stepped inside, and lying down on the thick bed of dust, peered over the edge, and saw the light of the lantern moving farther and farther away from her.

       Tredegar, though he was unarmed, had all the best of this serious game of hide-and-seek. Walroyd's lantern betrayed his every movement, and yet he dared not extinguish it. His whole chance of killing Tredegar lay in being able to see him. Tredegar, on the other hand, depended solely on his great strength, and this was as serviceable in the darkness as in the light. Death lurked for Walroyd in every shadow, but Tredegar had only to keep behind a pillar and dodge the rays of the lantern. All the fun of the game, as he afterward said, in narrating the story, lay in his own hands. Walroyd never knew exactly where his adversary might be. Under cover of the darkness, Tredegar moved from shelter to shelter, now in front, now at the side, now behind. Walroyd's lantern flashed swiftly round in circles in the hope of discovering his adversary. And yet only three times was he quick enough to see Tredegar's face. And thrice he fired, and missed. He was a first-class shot with a revolver, and the second bullet struck Tredegar's ear. The latter was more careful after this.

       For a whole hour, this phantom combat continued in the darkness. Then at last Tredegar's opportunity came. He was crouching in the sand behind the pillar. Half a dozen yards away Walroyd was flashing his lantern from place to place, standing in the open to avoid any chance of a surprise. Tredegar leaned forward and peered round the corner directly the light was turned away from his hiding-place. Then in the soft sand he touched a smooth round stone. He drew it out and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. It was about us large as a cricket ball.

       Ten seconds later it went spinning through the air, and caught Walroyd on the right, elbow with such force that he yelled with pain and the revolver dropped from his nerveless fingers, and his arm hung limply by his side.

       Before he could recover himself and reach for his weapon with the other hand, Tredegar had leapt out upon him and flung him to the ground.

       "Now, Mr. Walroyd," he said, with one hand upon the wretched man's throat, "it is my turn to dictate terms!"

       And lifting him up from the ground he held him out at arm's length and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. The lantern dropped in the sand, and they were in darkness.

 
CHAPTER XXIV.
WALROYD'S STORY.

       "I yield — I yield!" gasped Walroyd.

       Tredegar flung him on the ground, and taking off the silk scarf from his own neck, bound his wrists securely Then he groped for the lantern, and relighted it.

       "Now," 'said Tredegar, sternly, "I am going to have a plain talk with you, Mr. Walroyd. You have done your best to kill me, and to doom an innocent girl to a terrible and lingering death. You have failed; and if I were to choke the life out of you I should not be troubled by any qualms or conscience. Moreover, I could do it with impunity, for your body would never be found. I intend, however, to spare you, because you will be more useful to me alive than dead. In the first, place I want you to show us the way out of this cavern; and, secondly, I intend you to tell me how you found this treasure.

       Walroyd did not answer. His face was white as a sheet, and he snarled like an angry dog. Tredegar leant down and lifted him to his feet.

       "Walk in front of me," he said. "We will return to Miss Morgan."

       The light of the lantern fell on a glittering object in the sand. It was Walroyd's revolver. Tredegar picked it up, and looked at the chambers. They were all empty but one.

       "Any more cartridges," he queried.

       Walroyd did not reply. Tredegar searched his pockets and found no further ammunition: He found, however, the half of the gold disc. He wondered how it had come into Walroyd's possession. He could not believe that Cynthia had given it to this man. He placed it in his pocket.

       "Move on," Tredegar said, "and lead the way back to the tomb. I don't want to be rough, but the sooner you realise the situation, the better for you. The game is up, Walroyd, and you'd better be pleasant about it."

       A dozen schemes for escape had flashed through Walroyd's subtle mind, but he rejected them all as worthless. He turned to Tredegar with a smile.

       "As you say, Tredegar," he replied: "the game is up! I am at your service. I will show you the way if you will follow me."

       It took them twenty minutes to reach their destination, Walroyd stopping every now and then to examine some secret mark on the stone columns. When the green jasper pillars came in sight, Tredegar called out cheerily to Myvanwy, and she rose from her hiding-place with a white face, and wide staring eyes, like some ghost from a tomb.

       "Thank God!" she murmured, under her breath, as she saw Walroyd's bound hands.

       "Mr. Walroyd has kindly consented to show us the way out of here," Tredegar said. "He has also promised to enlighten us as to this treasure. I think we had better hear the story before we leave. He may forget, if we wait till we reach the daylight."

       Walroyd flushed angrily. "I have said that I will tell you the story," he replied, with some show of dignity. "I have no interest in keeping the truth from you."

       Tredegar smiled grimly, and drew out some food from his knapsack.

       "I am hungry," he said, "and I expect you are, too, Myvanwy. If Mr. Walroyd will join us we shall be delighted. We have not much to offer him."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXIV. — (Continued.)

       Walroyd look at the knotted silk scarf on his wrists. Tredegar unfastened it and bound it tightly round the prisoner's ankles. Then they, all three sat down in the sand and ate of the frugal fare in silence. When they had finished. Tredegar pulled out his pipe and lit it. Walroyd looked wistfully at the curling smoke.

       "You can smoke," Tredegar said in answer to the mute inquiry in his eyes. Walroyd took out a cigar and lit it with trembling hands.

       "I will tell you everything," he said in a low voice, "but only on one condition."

       "Condition?" queried Tredegar. "It is I who dictate the terms, Mr. Walroyd."

       "Pardon me," replied Walroyd, "but unless you comply with this one condition, I shall not open my mouth on the subject, and you can do what you please with me."

       "Well," said Tredegar, with a frown.

       "It is merely this — that you regard what I tell you as a secret. Personally I do not care who knows the story so long as it is kept from the ears of one person. To ensure this, no one must know it but yourselves."

       "Who is the one person?" asked Tredegar.

       "The lady I am going to marry."

       "I do not know her," Tredegar replied, "but she has all my sympathy."

       "On the contrary, you know her very well. It is Miss Cynthia Cantrip."

       Tredegar scarcely repressed an oath. The idea of Cynthia Cantrip married to this scoundrel was intolerable. He glanced at Myvanwy, and saw from her downcast eyes and averted head that she knew the truth. She wondered why she had not spoken to him of this.

       "I had not heard of this before," he said quietly; "Myvanwy, I think you might have told me."

       Myvanwy looked up from the sand and her eyes flashed dangerously. For a brief moment she suspected the faithfulness of her lover. Then she went red with shame. Walroyd enjoyed the situation. He felt he was getting his own back, and made up his mind to tell Tredegar the whole truth.

       "I am surprised Miss Morgan did not tell you," Walroyd said, "seeing that your escape from the Plas Tredegar —–"

       "That will do," Tredegar broke in roughly, as he saw the look of pain on Myvanwy's face. "Miss Morgan did not tell me because she thought it would not interest me. I do not wish to hear it. Please, proceed with the story of the treasure."

       "I have told you my condition," Walroyd replied sullenly. "Unless you agree to it, I shall not speak a word."

       "Very well," Tredegar said curtly; "your secret shall be kept. Tell us in as few words as possible. You will of course speak the truth."

       "I swear it by all I hold most sacred."

       Tredegar set the lantern so that the light fell full on Walroyd's face. Then he went up to his prisoner, and once more transferred the scarf from the ankles to the wrists. After that he sat down and leant his back against one of the jasper pillars.

       "Well?" he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Walroyd's face.

       "This is the truth," Walroyd said slowly, "and when you have heard it, you will at least admit that the credit for the discovery of the treasure is due to me and my brother.

       "I am, as perhaps you have guessed, an Englishman. But ten years ago we were both in Chicago, and engaged in a business which brought us in a moderate income from several different sources. I need only mention two of these. We dealt in second-hand articles of plate, jewellery, &c., and we advanced money on various things deposited with us at a remunerative rate of interest. There was a third partner in the business, but his name does not matter to you. Our own name at that time was not Walroyd, but that again is of no importance. In any case I do not intend to enlighten you on the matter.

       "Well, one day, a sailor off one of the lake steamers came to our establishment and offered to sell us a gold disc inscribed with various unintelligible characters. I need not describe it to you, Tredegar, because by a strange coincidence you happen to possess half of it. We purchased it for a little more than its weight in sovereigns, and my brother, who took some interest in antiquities, would not rest until he had found someone who could decipher the inscription."

       "Where did the sailor got the disc?" interrupted Tredegar.

       "He did not say, but he was a Spaniard, and for all I know may have come from Peru. Well, as I was saying, my brother went to considerable trouble to find anyone who could make head or tail of what was written on the disc. At last he came across on old Englishman who had made a special study, of dead and forgotten languages. This old fellow, who was in very low water indeed, at once recognised the inscription as having been written in some branch of the Celtic tongue. He offered to translate it for fifty dollars, and assured us that the labour would be well worth the money, as the particular form of the language was unknown to him, and though he could roughly gather what the inscription was about, it was written in a dialect or patois that was quite outside the ordinary knowledge of Celtic scholars. It would, so he assured us, cost him many days of thought, and much original research, to give us an exact translation.

       "My brother Cyrus agreed to his terms, and in due course we were furnished with a translation, which, as far as I can remember, ran some thing like this. On one side was written: —

       "'Gold is the breath of life, but this is the disc of death, and of sorrow; and every fragment of it shall bring death and sorrow to its owner. Yet the whole is perfect life.'"

       "It seems to me to be perfect rubbish," said Tredegar.

       "Possibly I have not given the exact words," continued Walroyd. "At any rate, the pieces of the disc have at present brought nothing but disaster to those who have come into contact with them. The other side was less enigmatical, but more difficult to remember. It ran, I think, something like this: —

       "'The treasure of Temawr, to whom the sea gave up its dead.

       "'Chiqualpo, where the last priest of him died. The rock is in the valley of the river of gold, and the rock is his tomb, and here is the grave of Dyfydd and the grave of the treasure of Temawr.'"

       "Very interesting," said Tredegar, "but very vague."

       "It took us a whole year to locate the place," continued Walroyd. "The very name of Chiqualpo was lost and its identity was only discovered by an Aztec scholar whom we employed on the search. The river and the valley are still there, and the sands of the river are rich in gold. The rock, however, proved a veritable stumbling block, and we spent six months in excavating and blasting, and exploring ostensibly in search of gold — till we found the tomb of Dyfydd, the last priest of Temawr. There, graven on the rock, we discovered an inscription, apparently in the same characters as those on the disc. Probably Dyfydd engraved it himself in his lifetime. We cabled to Chicago for the old antiquary, paid all his expenses, and gave him 500 dollars for his troubles. I bet he had never lived so well for many years."

       "Is he alive now?" Tredegar queried. He wondered how long the poor old man would live after he had deciphered the secret of the treasure.

       "No," Walroyd replied. "Unfortunately he died of fever shortly afterwards, and was buried in Peru. We paid, the money to his only daughter, and she was glad of it. poor thing! But to resume my narrative, the inscription was most interesting, and opened up a whole field of inquiry and research as to some connection between the Aztecs of Peru and the small band of priests that acknowledged Temawr as their leader on the coast of Wales.

       "It appears that in the third century a.d. a city of considerable size lay at the end of what is now known as the Sarn of Cefyn. Even at that time the sea had begun to encroach on the land. Temawr was the priest of a sect which apparently owed half its religion to Christianity and half to the worshippers of the sun, and he seems to have been a man of considerable political as well as religious influence. His temple — or monastery, or college, or whatever you choose to call it — was constructed underground, and was the very place we are now in. No one ever entered it but a priest of the order, sworn to lifelong silence. It was some miles inland from the town, and approached by subterranean passages which are now filled by the sea."

       "And the treasure?" queried Tredegar, eagerly. "How could the priest of a tribe of savages accumulate a treasure like this?"

       "I will tell you," said Walroyd, "so far as I can remember. A hundred yards to the south of the Sarn of Cefyn lies a deep channel worn out by the ceaseless flow of a current, which exists even to this day. It is now merely part of the sea, but at that time it ran inland in the form of a gulf. This current was alleged to be the termination of what might be almost called a 'river of the sea,' the source of which was somewhere south of the Equator, and which flowed century after century to this point on the coast of Wales. It appears to have been a submarine current, and to have run close to the bed of the ocean. At any rate, it swept along with it all the wrecks which had sunk to the bottom, and all the bodies which had dropped down through the green water to what might have been supposed to be their last resting-place. Temawr, in the course of the excavation of his temple, came across a mighty cavern, into which the waters of the sea poured and boiled unceasingly. Here were gathered the wreckageo and the dead of a thousand years, sucked in from every sea by the force of this silent stream. Here tossed the bones of ten thousand dead men who had never received a burial. Temawr, who appears to have been practical as well as pious, formed the idea of despoiling all these wrecks of whatever valuables he could find, and giving the dead owners a decent burial as some sort of payment for what he had taken. He thus accumulated a vast store of treasure, gathered in by the currents of the sea from many oceans and many lands. The inscription on the tomb behind you is the name as appears on the disc: —

       "'Temawr, to whom the sea gives up its dead.'"

       "Well, how did you find the treasure?" Tredegar said, impatiently.

       "'The inscription on the Peruivian tomb gave minute directions as to the locality; but I will not weary you with them — and, indeed, I can scarcely remember all the details. The first thing we found, however, when we came to Garth, was that the original entrance to the tomb lay several miles out at sea, and was now covered by ten fathoms of water. As you know, the sea has encroached considerably on this coast even during the last century.

       "It was then we made careful calculations and maps, and after a year's hard work we discovered that one of the passages of the old Tredegar lead mine was likely to run somewhere near the last cavern of Temawr's gigantic temple. We resolved to blast our way through, and after infinite labour we were rewarded with success. That is all, and I think you will admit that the whole credit of the discovery is due to us."

       "But why this secrecy?" queried Tredegar. "Why did you not go about it openly? Your own share would have been enormous."

       Walroyd shrugged his shoulders.

       "The Government," he replied, "make their own terms in these matters. I do not see why they should have anything at all. If you will come with me I will show you the way out."

       "Not for a minute or two," said Tredegar. "You have not said anything yet about the most extraordinary part of the whole business. How is it that I found half of the golden disc on a desert island in the Pacific?"

       "Oh, I had forgotten that part of the story," Walroyd said, carelessly. "the explanation is very simple, though it is an extraordinary coincidence that you should have also been wrecked on the same island, and should have discovered what we lost. On our way from Peru to England our ship was wrecked in mid-ocean. I and my brother and our partner were the sole survivors, and after enduring considerable suffering and privations we were cast on an island which appeared to be tenanted entirely by spiders. You yourself know the inconceivable horrors of the place. I cannot bear the sight of a spider to this day. Our partner, who had suffered terribly from thirst and hunger, went mad and threw himself into the sea, and we never saw him again."

       Tredegar looked keenly at Walroyd's face as he told the story. He was sure the man was lying.

       "And the disc?" he asked. "How was it broken, and why was half left on the island?"

       Walroyd smiled.

       "When our partner's brain began to give way," he replied, "he insisted on having half of the disc in. his possession. He suffered from a delusion that we were going to defraud him of his share in the treasure. He knew that we had some superstitions about the disc, and he agreed to give us the other half when the spoil had been equally divided, so that the words of Dyfydd, follower of Temawr, might hang over our heads as a threat till the whole affair had been fairly settled up. To humour him, we gave way on this point, and he fastened the half on a gold chain which he always wore round his wrist. Where did you find it?"

       "I found it on his wrist," Tredegar answered, slowly.

       Walroyd leaned back as though exhausted, and turned his face away from the light. For a whole minute no one spoke. Then Tredegar started, and peered across the circle of light. He had heard something shuffling softly through the sand. A second later a shadowy form flitted across the light between two pillars in the distance, and disappeared in the darkness. In a moment he was on his feet, and jumping to Walroyd's side began to unfasten the bandage from the man's wrists. Then he took the revolver from his pocket, and thrust it into Walroyd's hand. "Take this, you liar!" he said, in a low voice: "for by —– you will want it! Your partner, whose death you, have so graphically described, is not twenty yards from you at this minute, and I do not think you will care to meet him face to face."

       Walroyd sprang to his feet, and his face was white as death. A second later a great shaggy figure came into the light and stood before them, not ten feet from the terror-stricken man. And through the yellow matted hair John Walroyd recognised the face of his partner Heatherbutt — a face distorted and horrible, but with still some resemblance to the human features of the man he had thought dead. He raised his revolver with a trembling hand, steadied it for a moment on his arm, and pulled the trigger.

       There was no report. It was the one worthless cartridge that a man may find among five hundred, and it had so happened that John Walroyd had found it when his very life depended on its accuracy. He gave a loud cry of terror, and fled into the darkness.

 
CHAPTER XXV.
THE DAY OF RECKONING.

       Tredegar snatched the lantern from the ground and followed as rapidly as he could. He dared not leave Myvanwy, and was obliged to accommodate his pace to hers. They stumbled forward through the deep sand, only catching a glimpse now and then of a dim, brown form flying through the darkness. Walroyd was dodging from pillar to pillar, apparently trying to rejoin Tredegar, but he found himself intercepted at every turn. He hoped, however, that the time gained by these tactics, would enable Tredegar to overtake his terrible adversary. But Myvanwy was weak and ill, and moved but slowly; and Walroyd found himself being driven farther and further across the cavern.

       At last Tredegar saw the wretched man vanish through an opening in the wall. The pursuer was but five yards behind, and the door crashed to in his face. However, it gave with the monster's enormous weight, and Walroyd had evidently not had time to turn the key in the lock. Both vanished from sight, and Tredegar heard a scream of terror, which echoed and re-echoed through the cavern till it was magnified into a long wail of agony, rising and falling, and then dying away into silence.

       Quick as thought, he took the key from the inside of the lock and thrust it into Myvanwy's hand.

       "When I have gone through," he said hurriedly, "lock the door and stay this side. You will be quite safe."

       She flung the key from her, and passed through, the door.

       "I will come with you," she said. "I am not afraid to stay; but I must come with you. I could not be on the other side of this door while you are in there with' them."

       Tredegar did not wait to argue, but ran down a narrow, rocky passage and emerged into a great cavern. The light of the lantern seemed like a speck in the gloom, and Tredegar could see nothing but a circle of glistening rocks. He heard the swish and gurgle of waters sluicing to and fro, and the air was damp with salt spray. A cool breeze beat against his face, and he heard it whistling and moaning through the cavernous heights above his head. It was a veritable cave of the winds.

       He stretched out his left hand and took Myvanwy's arm. The wet rocks were slippery, and he had to almost lift her over their uneven surface. He saw nothing of the fugitives, and every sound was drowned by the roar of the wind and the crash of the waters. The lantern flickered, and gave a dull and fitful light. Then suddenly, above all the sounds of the elements, a shriek rang out, followed by another, and by yet another.

       Tredegar dashed forward, and passing round a large piece of rock, came in view of a sight that for a moment made him stand aghast with horror.

       A dozen yard's away a great brown figure stood upon a sloping ledge of rock. Its left hand was stretched out us though to balance itself. Its right grasped Walroyd by one ankle and swung him round and round above its head, as a boy might wave a handkerchief.

       Beyond this awful spectacle the rock seemed to end, and there was a gulf of blackness.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXV. — (Continued.)

       Tredegar thrust the lantern into Myvanwy's hand, and told her to stay where she was and close her eyes. Then he rushed forward. But, before he could reach the spot the monster loosed his victim, and Walroyd went spinning out into the darkness beyond. Tredegar heard a dull splash, and the next moment his adversary was at his throat, his foot slipped, and he was borne backwards to the ground.

       Myvanwy gave a little shriek of terror, and, falling on her knees, clasped her hands, and dared not look at the two figures struggling on the sloping rock.

       But when she raised her eyes again Tredegar, had gripped his adversary by the waist, and was slowly forcing him over to one side, till the two men were both on the ground, and were locked in so close an embrace that their heads hung over each other's shoulders.

       Then commenced a contest so frightful in its fierceness and intensity that it seemed to Myvanwy's terrified gaze as though no human strength could withstand the strain. For twenty minutes each of the combatants tried to get the other underneath him, and shift his hands from the waist to the throat, without losing the advantage that a firm hold on the body gave to him. But directly either of them tried to effect this, the other man swung him downwards with a crash on the rock, and the positions were reversed. Once Tredegar got a firm grip on his adversary, and his powerful fingers clutched the sinewy throat with such strength that Heatherbutt's eyes began to start from their sockets. But the latter, in his brutish madness, drew Tredegar down to him and fastened his teeth in the young Welshman's shoulder, literally biting out layers of cloth and flannel and flesh. Tredegar shifted his hold to the body with a superhuman effort, and struggled slowly to his feet, drawing his adversary with him from the ground.

       Then he tried to hurl Heatherbutt, from his foothold, hoping to dash him down with such violence as to render him insensible; but the madman seemed to be endowed with supernatural strength, and his bare feet gave him a firm foothold on the rock. Tredegar tried in vain to swing him off his balance. The man seemed as strong and resilient as a bar of steel. He bent to and fro under the terrible pressure, but he would not break or fall.

       Then suddenly, as though by mutual consent, both men loosed their hold at the same time, in the hope of obtaining a more advantageous grip. For a brief moment they faced each other, panting, trembling with the strain, one of them foaming at the mouth, and the other with the lust of blood written large on his honest countenance, their, eyes glittering with an evil light, their hands crooked like claws, as though they would tear the flesh off each other's bones.

       Then Heatherbutt sprung at his opponent with a savage howl. Tredegar met the onslaught as a rock might meet the foaming fury of the sea, and drove his clenched fist into the man's face with such force that Heatherbutt went reeling backwards to the ground and slid a dozen feet over the surface of the rock.

       Tredegar sprang forward to grasp his adversary before the latter could rise to the ground, but Heatherbutt was too quick for him, and was on his feet to meet him. The blood poured from the madman's nose and month, and the yellow hair was streaked and splashed with crimson stains. In the dim light the face looked horrible and shapeless.

       Tredegar drew back his great fist and struck again with all his strength. But this time he struck the empty air. Heatherbutt swerved with incredible swiftness, and flinging his arm round Tredegar's thighs almost threw the latter from his balance. Then Tredegar leant over the shaggy, brown back, and placing his hands underneath the body, joined them, and tried to throw his opponent backwards over his head. But the effort was too great; the other flung his weight downwards and curved his body like a steel bow. Then they both lost their balance, and came heavily to the ground.

       And for a whole hour this terrible combat continued to the music of the howling wind and the roaring water. It raged with varying turns of fortune, now one, now the other, seeming to have the advantage.

       Both were men of such gigantic strength that a casual onlooker would have been unable to gauge the enormous power of their efforts from the results of their exertions. Tredegar was undoubtedly the superior in strength, but Heatherbutt's phenomenal activity, and the firm foothold his bare feet gave him on the rock, and above all the supernatural frenzy of his madness equalised any advantage Tredegar might have gained from sheer weight and muscle. The battle was waged over a large area, but each instinctively carried the scene of the contest, as far as possible from the edge of the gulf. At one moment it was fought silently, and almost without movement on the ground. At another both men were on their feet, tugging and straining to dash each other down, to the rock; at another they would, lose their grip and beat at each other's faces and bodies; Tredegar with clenched fists, and Heatherbutt with talons like fingers that left long lines of blood and tattered shreds of clothing wherever they renewed their mark.

       It was impossible that such a contest could last. It was almost incredible that it had lasted so long. Every minute their movements grew more slow, and their efforts more feeble. Their breath came and went in great gasping sobs. They were fighting for their lives, and the first to grow weary must die. And all the while Myvanwy watched them with white face and wide-open eyes, crouching by the lantern, and moving it as the scene of the combat shifted, so that the light should always be upon them. She was like a limelight operator following the movements of the actors on the stage.

       At last the end came. Tredegar's superior strength began to tell, and the wild frenzy of the madman was burning itself out into a dull and stolid resistance. The grasp of the great hairy hands was growing more feeble, the spring of the steel muscles less elastic and powerful, the untrained fury of that wild beast was less quick to respond to the schemes and tricks of the human being. Now and again a horrible groan broke from Heatherbutt's lips, and when he should have lain still and held tight, he writhed and bit, and tore savagely with his nails.

       Tredegar, in spite of his terrible exertions and the pain he suffered from his wounds, still kept his wits about him, waiting for the moment when a supreme effort would give him the victory. And he did not wait in vain. Heatherbutt's strength exhausted itself in a long, and terrible outburst of fury, and then suddenly died down, like the last flicker of a candle. Tredegar felt the slackening of the grasp, and the labour of the other's breathing. Both were on the ground locked in a close embrace. Then Tredegar suddenly loosed his opponent's body, and placing his hands on the madman's chest, thrust himself upwards with such force that he broke from his opponent's clasp. Then he gripped him by the throat, and exerting all his great strength he lifted Heatherbutt's head from the rock, and dashed it down with all his force. He lifted it again, and yet again, beating the ground with it till the rock was red with blood. Then Heatherbutt lay still, with closed eyes and wide open mouth. The combat was over.

       Tredegar staggered to his feet and gazed blindly at Myvanwy through a mist of blood. Then he reeled and fell crashing to the rock. He struggled up on to one elbow and cried out to her. As she advanced towards him the yellow light seemed to fade a way in a grey fog, and then all was darkness.

       When he came to his senses, he found Myvanwy bending over him and wiping the blood from his face with a damp handkerchief. His brain was dizzy, and the dark outline of rocks seemed to spin slowly round him.

       "Are you better, dear Emrys?" she said, and her voice sounded like a far off echo.

       "I am better," he said, passing his hand across his forehead. "I expect I have lost some blood."

       "I have bound up the wound on your shoulder," she replied. "I think it will be all right. The others are ugly scratches, but they must hurt terribly."

       "I think it was the strain of the long struggle more than anything else," he said. "I have always reckoned myself a strong, man, Myvanwy, but I would not go through a fight like that again for all the wealth in the world. Is he dead?"

       "I don't think so," she answered, "he has not moved but he is breathing faintly."

       Tredegar struggled to his feet.

       "He must die," he said quietly. "It would be cruelty to let him live, and it is better he should die now while he is unconscious."

       "Oh, Emrys," she cried out in horror, "you could not do it."

       "I must, I must, Myvanwy. It is impossible to let him loose once more on the earth."

       "Bind him," she answered, "and have him taken to an asylum."

       "It is better for him to die," Tredegar said slowly. "I will throw him over the edge of the gulf. Stay where you are, Myvanwy, and, do not look."

       "I cannot. I cannot," she cried. "Emrys, it is murder."

       "It is a kindness. He would thank me, Myvanwy — his poor soul would thank me for releasing it from this living death."

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXV. — (Continued.)

       He took the lantern and strode forward towards the prostrate form of Heatherbutt, and Myvanwy stood rooted to the ground in horror. Then she turned her head away and buried her face in her hands.

       Tredegar stooped down and peered into the face of the unconscious madman. It was the first time he had had a clear view of him in the light, and he seemed horribly human. His face was covered with matted and tangled hair. His arms and legs, which were bare from the knees downwards, were brown and shaggy, He was clothed in a rude jerkin and knee breeches fashioned out of the skin of some animal, probably a horse or a cow. Tredegar saw now why in the darkness he had mistaken him for a wild beast. But in the light of the lantern he looked very human. His face, though it was terribly battered and disfigured, was almost, pathetic in the repose of unconsciousness. Tredegar was glad that his eyes were closed.

       His mind, however, was made up. He did not stop to think that he was going to destroy the evidence of his own innocence. He only saw that the earth must be rid of this monster. That the weary soul must be freed from its loathsome prison-house, and that Cynthia must never know.

       He grasped him round the body, and lifting him from the ground staggered to the edge of the gulf. He did not know how far the water was below him. He hesitated, and the spray dashed up in his face. Then Heatherbutt sighed and opened his eyes. Tredegar hesitated no longer, and swinging the great body back, he cast it forward into the darkness of the gulf. There was a heavy splash and a shower of water flew up into his face. The surface could not have been more than three or four feet below the edge. He knew he had done right, but he know also that the dull sound of that splash, and that faint sigh, and that burst of spray against his face would haunt him to the day of his death. He reeled away from the edge, and went back to Myvanwy.

       "We must get out of here," he cried hoarsely. "I have done it. It had to be done. You do not know all. Let us go. There must be some way out of this place."

       She did not answer, but began to move across the slippery rock by his side, he held out his hand to help her, but she shrank from him, as though his touch would defile her. The agony of his mind outweighed the bodily pain that he suffered, yet he knew that he had acted rightly.

       They stumbled on over the rocks till they reached the wall of this cavern, and proceeding along by this they came in time to a ledge, where they found a fresh store of provisions, another lantern, candles, an unopened bottle of brandy, and a few long strips of some dull grey metal.

       Tredegar put the candles in his pocket, and pushed the cork of the bottle in with his finger. After offering the brandy to Myvanwy, who just touched it with her lips, he took a deep drought, himself, and picking up the pieces of metal, examined them. A sudden idea struck him, and he put a lighted match to the end of one of them. In an instant the strip — flared up in an intense white light, and a vast panorama of wet rock and glistening wall, and vaulted roof sprang suddenly into view. The light burned fiercely for nearly a minute, and then the whole scene died away, and the yellow flicker of the lantern seemed a mere mockery of the darkness.

       "Magnesium wire," said Tredegar, thrusting the remaining strips into his pocket. "It may be useful." Then they continued their search in silence, still keeping to the wall. But, as they proceeded, the splash of the waters grew more distinct, and a faint spray began to drift against their faces.

       All at once a line of darkness crossed the wet rock in front of them, and they found themselves on the edge of the pool. Tredegar held the lantern so that its rays shone down on the water, and he saw a wide swift stream pouring past him like a mill race. And as far as the eye could reach a thick moss of wreckage was jammed together and heaped up above the level of the stream. The water flew into the air as it dashed against great spars, and keels, and ribs of vessels, and it roared unceasingly. Then Tredegar knew that this was the place that Walroyd had spoken of — the grave of a thousand vessels, and ten thousand men, and it was from here that Temawr had gathered his jewels and his dead.

       They walked along the edge of the stream, till they and passed the place where Heatherbutt had been flung out to his death. Tredegar looked carefully for his victim's body, but could see no signs of it. Then fifty yards further on the lantern showed a great barrier of broken rock and wreckage heaped up to a height of over twenty feet above the surface of the water. Tredegar lit another piece of magnesium wire, and in the dazzling light they saw a strange scene.

       On the other side of the barrier lay a smooth black pool of water, dotted as far as the eye could reach with the remnants of shattered vessels. Broken masts rose thirty feet from the surface, and rotting rope hung in shreds from their spars. Here and there the whole long hull of a vessel showed above the waters, or a line of bare ribs curved up from the depths below. Loose planks, barrels, and spars spun round and round in a circle, and there was not a clear piece of water ten feet square to be seen anywhere. On one of the vessels they could see the skeletons of dead men, still set in the attitude in which they had died. Beneath their feet, lay a small margin of smooth sand. An iron-bound box gaped open, and from the rent in its side a stream of yellow coins had poured out on the shore. It could not have floated to the beach, and Tredegar wondered whose hand brought it there and who had commenced to ransack its treasures. Not five yards away from them lay the bones of a man, and a few coins still lay among the slender outlines of his fingers.

       All this Tredegar and Myvanwy saw in the space of a minute. Then the blazing wire flared down close to Tredegar's fingers, and he flung the burning piece upon the ground. As he did so, a light spurted up under his feet, and a second later a swift sputtering flame ran through the darkness like a long thin serpent of fire. Then fifty yards away there was a blinding flash, a long dull roar, and a shock that extinguished the light of the lantern, and threw both of them to the ground.

 
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE POOL.

       For a few seconds both were too astonished and stunned to move. A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke drifted down on them, and they heard the roar of the waves suddenly die away into silence. Tredegar thought, that the explosion had deafened him, but, when he had kicked the rock with the heel of his boot, and heard the sound clearly, he realised that something else must have happened. He groped for the lantern, and re-lit it. The air was thick with vapour, and he could not see two yards in any direction. He rose to his feet, and looked for Myvanwy. She was sitting in a half-dazed condition and staring round her as though trying to make out what had happened. She was coughing violently as the pungent smoke rolled past her. Tredegar went to her side and helped her to her feet.

       "What is it?" she said faintly.

       "I don't know," he replied. "But thee burning wire evidently lit a fuse. Some contrivance of Walroyd's, I expect. Perhaps an arrangement to blast down the entrance to the cavern. If so, Heaven help us, for we are rats in a trap."

       He lit a piece of Magnesium wire, and the bright light illuminated the smoke till it looked like the drifting of white clouds. Then he looked at the pool, and gave an exclamation of surprise. The narrow belt of sand had disappeared, and the water was lapping against the rock. In an instant he realised the situation, and grasped Myvanwy by the arm.

       "The water is rising," he cried; "quick, we must find the entrance."

       They hurried off over the rocks till they reached the wall of the cavern. In a few minutes they had followed it up to the narrow passage which led to the doorway. They hurried down this, and then Tredegar, who was in front, stopped and moved his lantern to and fro, examining something that was in front of him. The roof of the passage had caved in, and great pieces of rock were piled up from floor to roof. He seized a huge piece in his hands and dragged it from the pile. Then he flung half a dozen others to the ground. Then a great mass of slate seven feet high confronted him. He grasped it with both hands and lugged at it with all his strength, till he tore small pieces out of its edges. But it refused to budge an inch. Walroyd had laid the mine too well. They were indeed, as Tredegar had said, rats in a trap. He looked at Myvanwy, who leant against the wall of the passage trembling.

       "We must go back," he cried. "It will be all right, Myvanwy, I don't suppose the water will rise very much."

       But when they reached the place. they had just left, the water was on a level with the top of the rock, and in some places it had begun to pour over the edge.

       For a few seconds they watched it in silence, Myvanwy half paralysed with fear and Tredegar swiftly planning out some means of escape. At last a stream trickled over the soles of their boots, and a broken plank slid half over the edge of the rock. Tredegar seized it and drew it on one side. He had decided on a course of action, and set to work at once.

       He moved quickly along the rock, splashing through the water as he went, and gathered together every suitable plank and spar that was within reach. Then, stripping off the cordage, he started to bind them together into some sort of raft. He made the framework of four large spars, crossed them with a number of smaller ones, and laid planks on the top of these. He worked quickly and without much attention to detail, but before he had finished, the water was over their knees. The raft, however, was a solid piece of work. It was about twelve feet square, and looked substantial enough to support several people.

       Then he picked up Myvanwy, and, placing her in the centre, climbed on himself. One side of the little craft sank into the water with his great weight; but when they had "trimmed" the boat, it floated well, and the planks were quite six inches above the surface.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXVI. — (Continued.)

       "This is our only chance," Tredegar said. "It is possible the water may not rise much further and that it may subside."

       "Supposing the cavern lies below the level of the sea?" Myvanwy said. "What then?"

       Tredegar's face whitened, and he gripped one of the spars so tightly that his nails made dents in the wood.

       "What then?" he replied, slowly. "Well, Myvanwy, we shall have to face it. For me it does not matter, now that I seem to have lost your love. I can face death without fear. My only sorrow will be for you."

       "I, too, can face death without fear, Emrys," she said. "And I would rather die here with you than live the life that fate has marked out for me. But it is no time yet to talk of death, Emrys."

       And she smiled bravely through the tears that came to her eyes.

       He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips. She did not resist. She did not look upon it as an act of love.

       "There is no need to talk of it, Myvanwy," he said, after a pause. "It is visible and before our eyes. If the top of this cavern lies below the level of the sea the cavern will gradually fill up. Evidently the passage through which the waters poured out has been stopped up. Probably the concussion of the explosion has shaken down a huge mass of rock, if the cavern lies only partly below the level of the sea, the water will rise to that point and remain there, only rising and failing with the tides. In either event the same thing will happen. But in the one case it will come more quickly. No, Myvanwy, there is no need to talk of death. It will speak to us soon enough."

       She was silent. An hour passed, and neither of them spoke, but Tredegar still held her hand. The waters rose slowly, inch by inch, and the frail craft swam round and round in the circling current. Planks, barrels, spars, and all the debris that is shorn off a broken vessel by the sea floated past them in endless succession. Once part of a skeleton still lashed to a spar spun round and round by their side, till Tredegar lifted it from the water and flung it far away from them. Fortunately, no vessels had survived the storms that had brought them to the pool. Their shattered hulks lay now many feet under the water. If any of them had floated on the surface they would have added another terror to the perilous voyage of the raft, and it might have been crumpled up between two hulks like a walnut between a hammer and anvil.

       Tredegar watched the various objects go by, and he idly thought of Poe's story of the maelstrom, and wondered if these articles would obey the laws of motion laid down by that master of imagination. Now and again, he would make a note of some mark on the wall of the cavern, and then look again for it when the raft passed it in its next revolution; more often than not it would have vanished. He idly speculated how long the water would take to reach the roof. So far it was not visible in the lamplight.

       Then slowly smoothing also circled out of the darkness and floated into the light of the lantern — a frail plank clutched by a pair of bloodless hands, and a dim, white face looked upwards through the water. It was John Walroyd! It was evident that he was dead, for his mouth was below the surface. But he still held the plank in the grip of death. Tredegar could see a long gash across his forehead. Probably the wretched man had struck some plank or spar when Heatherbutt had flung him from the edge of the rock.

       Myvanwy did not see his ghastly face, and Tredegar was glad when the grim vision was carried away once more into the surrounding gloom.

       Time passed by wearily, like the hours of a sleepless night. From time to time the two spoke to each other, but neither talked of that which was nearest to their hearts. Tredegar did his best to cheer the trembling girl, but it was a hard task, and the strong clasp of his hand did more to reassure her than all the possibilities of escape that he suggested. She knew well enough that death stared them in the face, and that his hopeful words were no more than mere idle talk to distract her thoughts from the inevitable end. She only hoped that she could die with her hands still lying in his.

       At last the roof loomed in sight above them, and Tredegar directed the rays of the lantern upon every inch of it, in the hope of discovering some escape from their perilous position. Then he lit another piece of the magnesium wire, and for a few moments the whole long sheet of water, glittered in the brilliant light. The cavern seemed but a mere thin slice of what it had been — a narrow layer of air on the surface of a great deep. The light died out, and a sudden idea struck Tredegar, as darkness once more descended on the scene.

       "Myvanwy," he said, in a low voice, "there is some outlet in the roof of this cavern. It has just occurred to me that the water could not have risen, as it has done, unless the air had first been forced out to make room for it. There must be some hole, some passage, some crack. It is possible that it will be large enough —–"

       "No, Emrys," she hurriedly broke in. "Please do not hope. It is so much more terrible to hope, and then —–"

       And she burst into heart-rending sobs.

       "My darling!" Tredegar murmured; "my darling!" and loosing her hand, he threw his arms about her and drew her close to him.

       She was too weak to resist, and for one brief moment his lips were pressed to hers. Then she realised what he had done, and she shrank from his touch. He loosed her, and once more directed the rays of the lantern on the ceiling. It had come still nearer to the water, and he saw how it would come nearer still, and how it would slowly descend upon them inch by inch, till they could touch it with their hands; till it bore them down flat on the planks of the raft; till the water flowed up round them and began to enfold them in its cold embrace; till at last the water met the rock.

       But it was no time for thoughts like those, and Tredegar thrust them from his mind. Seizing a huge plank from the water, he used it as an oar, and directed the raft as best he could across the centre of the pool. Myvanwy held the lantern and threw its light on the roof above. They both scrutinised every foot of the grey rock over their heads.

       They crossed and re-crossed the dark lake a dozen times, and every minute the roof camo nearer to them. Then at last Myvanwy pointed to a dark patch in the slate a few yards ahead of them. When they reached it they saw that it was a hole about four feet in diameter.

       As they came up to it Tredegar steadied the raft with his oar, and rising to his feet tried to touch the roof overhead. He was surprised to find that he could not reach it by at least a yard. He had imagined that he could almost touch it on his knees. Such is the power of imagination, when death is creeping towards a man.

       Then he lit another piece of magnesium wire, and the light streamed upwards into the dark recess of the hole. He saw that it was perpendicular for a couple of feet and that it then sloped away into darkness. He looked at Myvanwy.

       "If I lift you up," he said, "do you think you could reach the edge of the slope

       "I will, try, Emrys," she replied. He steadied the raft, and then, laying down the oar, seized her by the waist and hoisting her on his shoulders, lifted her straight up above his head. She stretched up her hands, but only touched the rock overhead. The currents had moved the raft from under the hole. Again and again she tried, until at last she was successful. But her weak arms had not the strength to do more than cling to the edge of the slope. She could not raise herself an inch, and Tredegar could not help her. She dropped back into his arms, and the raft drifted away from the aperture.

       "We will wait till the waters rise, higher," Tredegar said, and he paddled the craft round and round underneath the hole. In a quarter of an hour he again lifted Myvanwy above his head, but this time she could only touch the edge of the rock. He laid her down on the planks and tried to realise the situation.

       "The water is falling," he said slowly, "we have reached the level of the sea, and the water is going down with the tide."

 
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE DARKNESS AND THE LIGHT.

       A look of despair came over both their faces. Once more they sat down on the raft, and watched the roof recede inch by inch as the tide went down in the bay outside.

       "We must wait till high water," said Tredegar after a long silence. "Then we will have another try. If we can secure an empty barrel we ought to be able to manage it."

       "The passage may be useless," said Myvanwy. She was not pessimistic, but she had resolved not to flatter herself with false hopes.

       "That is possible," cried, Tredegar, "but we cannot be worse off than we are now. I have food, but we have nothing to drink." He dipped his finger into the lake and tasted the water.

       "Salt, of course," he said. "I hardly expected it to be otherwise."

       "I am very thirsty," murmured Myvanwy wearily.

       "There may be" some spring flowing down from the rock overhead," said Tredegar, and guiding the raft all round the walls of the cavern he looked carefully for the stream of water that meant so much to them. But he saw no indication of what he sought. The walls were still wet with the tide that had receded from their surface. Here and there tiny rivulets trickled down into the lake, and Tredegar tasted every one of these in the hope of finding fresh water, but all of them were salt, and came from some ledge in the rock, where the sea still lay in some little pool.

       His search, however, suggested a new idea to him.

       "Do you think the tide was at its full height, Myvanwy?" he said, "when you tried to got into that opening?"

       "It had begun to fall," she replied.

       "Yes, but don't you understand? This cavern had to fill up to the level of the tide. The fact that it began to fall only meant that it had reached that level, whether the tide was high or half way. It only meant that the tide was going down. It is possible that it had already gone down considerably before the cavern filled. In which case, it will probably rise to the roof at the next high tide, and we can easily reach the gallery or shaft above. Have you any idea how the tides are running now?" And he looked at his watch.

       "It is now ten o'clock," he continued, "that must be ten o'clock at night, for I have been nearly twenty-four hours in this place. It was about two hours ago that the cavern had filled to its highest limit. Can you remember what time it was high water?"

       "I am afraid not," she replied. Like many people who live near the sea, she took but little notice of the state of the tides, and even if she had been in the habit of doing so, the events of the last few days would have driven all such recollections from her mind.

       Hour after hour passed, and they watched the water fall to its lowest point, and slowly creep up the wall again. Their thirst had become almost intolerable, and the very darkness had grown into a horror from which they longed to escape.

       The merest pencil of daylight falling from the roof above would have given them fresh hopes, and established some connection with the world outside. As it was, they felt as far removed from any living thing as the dead are from those who walk above their graves.

       At last, however, the water reached the same height which it had touched before. They had both anxiously watched it creep up to a mark upon the wall. Tredegar looked at his watch, and a look of relief crossed his weary face. For the lake had only taken eight hours to fall and rise again to the same point. It was quite evident that this was not the high watermark, and that the tide would rise for at least another two hours.

       He told the joyful news to Myvanwy, but she appeared to have fallen into a state of apathy, or else she was still afraid to snatch too hastily at the straws of hope that were held out to her.

       Tredegar steered the raft once more under the opening in the roof, and kept it in position with the plank, which served him for an oar. Inch by inch the water rose, till at last he could touch the rock above. In half an hour's time he could reach the edge where the opening sloped off abruptly at one side.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTEIR XXVII. — (Continued.)

       Then he gave Myvanwy the lantern, and taking her in his arms, lifted her up above his head, so that she could easily crawl into the passage. As he loosed her, however, the raft listed and slid suddenly away from under his feet and he was left hanging by his hands from the edge of the rock. Myvanwy gave a cry of terror, and peered down at him holding out her small white hand.

       For one brief moment he hesitated whether to drop back, into the water and recover the raft, or endeavour, to raise himself up by sheer strength till he could get some foothold on the rock. The latter was no great feat for a man of his muscular powers, but his arms had been strained to the utmost in the fierce contest he had just gone through, and he was weak and ill from the loss of blood he had sustained. However, he exerted all his great strength and drew himself up till his chin was on a level with his hands. Then, working one arm over the edge, he placed his feet against the opposite wall, and took some of the weight off his arms.

       In a few seconds he secured a firm foothold on a small projecting piece of rock, and lifting himself up, scrambled to Myvanwy's side.

       "I'm afraid we've lost the raft," he said. "I had half a mind to drop back into the water and secure it. But I don't think it would have been much use to us. I don't suppose the water will ever leave this cavern."

       Myvanwy said nothing, but gently touched his hand us he knelt beside her. Both were now thoroughly, worn out, and it was evident, unless they speedily found an exit from these endless caverns and passages. that they would very soon perish of exhaustion. The wound on Tredegar's shoulder was very painful. The loss of blood and the exertion he had gone, through would have killed a weaker man. As it was, his physical and mental energy had been reduced to the lowest ebb.

       Myvanwy had been now for several days in the caverns, and workings of the old lead mine. It would have been a terrible ordeal for any woman, even if it had not been accompanied by a succession of incidents that might have shaken the fortitude of the strongest man. Both, moreover, were half dead from want of water.

       The tunnel in which they found themselves sloped slightly upwards. Tredegar took the lantern from Myvanwy's hand and examined the walls carefully. It was clear to him at the first glance that this was no work of Welsh miners. The walls were smooth, while the roof and floor formed almost an exact square. It seemed like the work of the priests of Temawr, and Tredegar's heart sank us he looked at its carefully planed surface. If it were indeed part of their old excavations in the rock, it most likely led the way to another cavern, and there to still more remote places — in the bowels of the earth. The priests of Temawr had but little sympathy with the sunshine and the glories of the world's surface. They burrowed deep, and lay hid from the eyes of men. If on the other hand, it had been part or the workings of a mine, it would be certain to have some exit to the open air; and even if it only led to the bottom of a deep shaft it would afford then some chance of escape.

       They moved along the passage slowly and in silence. It ran in a perfectly straight line, and no galleries branched out from it either to right or left. It seemed interminable to their weary hearts and limbs. At first a strong draught whistled past them. The rising water was forcing the air out of the cave behind. But as they proceeded this died away, and there was no sound save the click of their boots on the rocks.

       Then all at once the passage began to descend, and the slope was so steep that they could hardly keep their footing on the rock. The faint hopes they had in their hearts of reaching the surface failed away into dull despair. They were, descending once more into the depths of the earth. At the end in a couple of hundred yards they came to a flight of steps, and the descent became even more rapid than before.

       Tredegar counted two hundred and thirty-six of these, and then they came to a small landing some twenty feet square. They went to the edge of this, and, directing the light downwards, saw nothing but a further flight of steps vanishing into the darkness.

       "It is hopeless," said Tredegar. "Myvanwy, my darling —–" and he held out his hand to her.

       She took it, and smiled bravely.

       "We must go on," she murmured, with parched lips, "We must go on!" Then suddenly she reeled, and fell in a dead faint at his feet.

       It was nearly an hour before she recovered her senses, and at one time Tredegar thought that she was dead. Then for another hour she sat with her back against the wall and waived so us to recover something of her strength.

       Then suddenly she leaned forward from the wall and listened, with parched lips and an eager expression on her wan face.

       "Do you hear it?" she said. "Do you hear it, Emrys?"

       He listened, and strained, his ears to catch every sound, but he could hear nothing save the beating of his own heart.

       "I hear nothing, dearest," he said, looking at her anxiously.

       Her eyes glittered, and there was a feverish flush on her cheek, he began to fear that her sufferings had made her delirious.

       "Don't you hear it?" she repeated. "It is the whisper of the sea. Let us go on, Emrys!"

       Again he listened, but heard nothing. Myvanwy tried to rise to her feet, but she was too weak, and sank down again on to the rocky floor.

       "Go on, Emrys," she said, "Leave me, and come back. I am not afraid."

       For answer he handed her the lantern, and picking her up in his arms began to descend the next flight of steps. He counted a hundred of them, and then he heard a faint sound like the murmur of a breeze among the tree-tops. Myvanwy, whose nerves had been strung to the highest pitch by the silence and the darkness, was right. It was the far-off voice of the sea.

       Fresh life and strength poured into Tredegar's veins as he heard it. Myvanwy seemed but a feather in his arms. He fell inclined to run and jump down the steps three at a time, but he restrained himself, and moved cautiously from one to the other with the precious burden that, he carried.

       In ten minutes' time there was a faint glimmer of light far beyond. The whisper had gradually swelled into the splash of waters and the rhythmic beat of waves upon the shore. The cold breeze of the sea came up to them, and they drank it in like wine.

       At last, they readied the bottom, und picked, their way through a debris of broken rock. Then Tredegar had to put Myvanwy down, and excavate a passage through blocks of fallen slate and mounds of shale. Fortunately, none of the pieces were too large for him to move, and in half an hour he had torn out a passage.

       Beyond lay a small cave, and then a great bank of shingle reaching nearly to the roof. It was an easy task to clear a way over the top of this, and in a few minutes they both scrambled through, and found themselves in another small cave hollowed out at the base of the cliffs. The entrance was partly closed up with pieces of rock that had fallen from the height above. But they managed to crawl through an opening between two of them, and once more they stood beneath the sky and drank in the pure air of heaven!

       To their dying day neither of them ever forgot that moment, and I do not think that any happiness of after life ever quite equalled the supreme gladness of that hour. It could scarcely be realised by anyone but an entombed miner, brought up once more to the light of day, of some living man who had been nailed down in his coffin and released before he had been consigned to the grave. It was a new life — a resurrection from the dead.

       The first glow of dawn was rising above the distant hills beyond the Gogerddan marsh. A golden bar of light covered their summits, and the opposite side of the heavens was tinged with rosy flakes of clouds. A mist lay on the sea, and the vapour writhed in the faint breeze that was rising with the sun. The whole bay seemed like some wonderful picture to the eyes that had grown accustomed to the feeble glow of a lantern on walls of dull grey rock. As a matter of fact, it did not look exceptionally beautiful on that autumn morning; but Tredegar and Myvanwy thought that they had never seen a sight more fair. Above their heads the cliffs rose to a height of five hundred feet. Half a mile to their left lay the long, circular sweep of a sea wall, fringed with tall lampposts. It was deserted at this early hour, but it represented the world of living men and women. It was the sea-front of Llanfihangel.

       Neither of them spoke, but drank in the air and the daylight in silence. Then Myvanwy fell on her knees on the shingle and clasped her hands in prayer. Tredegar sunk silently by her side, and there they remained for a apace of a minute, offering thanks to their God that He had given them back their lives.

       Then they rose to their feet, and their first thought was of water. They both knew the coast between Llanfihangel and Garth well; and they at once proceeded towards the latter place until they reached a tiny stream trickling down from the rock. They drank deeply, though the water had a somewhat unpleasant taste. Then they ate a hearty meal of bread and cheese, and discussed the best plan for action.

       Finally, they resolved that Myvanwy, who for the moment felt well and buoyant at this unexpected change in their fortunes, should go to Llanfihangel, and take the first train back to Trethol Junction, and that Tredegar should remain concealed till he received some definite news from her as to his position. He wished, before showing himself openly in the neighbourhood, to know to what extent he had been acquitted of the crimes formerly laid to his charge. The tide was going down, and he escorted her to the commencement of the Llanfihangel parade.

       As they parted, he asked her to say nothing about him to anyone but to some officer of the police, and then only when she was quite sure that his acquittal was certain. He also specially impressed upon her that on no account whatever must she mention any part of Walroyd's story which related to James Heatherbutt to Cynthia Cantrip.

       Then he retraced his steps, and making his way back to that part of the passage which lay between the full of rock and the bank of shingle, filled his pipe, and smoked furiously. Never in all his life had he so much enjoyed the taste of tobacco. The very air seemed like the breath of a new life. The damp, salt smell of the wet shingle and seaweed was sweeter to him than all the perfumes of Araby. There was only one cloud on his horizon — the extraordinary attitude Myvanwy had taken up towards him, and he scarcely perceived this in the great joy of seeing her once more brought out of the valley of the shadow of death.

       In an hour's time the sun was shining brightly over the sea, and its light filtered through the crevices of the rock and over the bank of shingle into the place where Tredegar was sitting. The very silence, which had grown so horrible in the depths of the earth was now the peaceful quiet of content to the man who had eaten and drunk, and was enjoying a pipe after his meal. The sound of the sea on the beach was only such music as might lull a man to rest. Tredegar listened to the rhythmic splash of the water, and the dull rattle of the pebbles, as he might have listened to the sweetest song that ever came from a singer's lips.

       Then all at once he heard a piece of rock fall down from the heap behind him. He turned suddenly, and saw nothing. But a moment later he heard a great moan, and large lumps of slate came tumbling down from the top of the debris, and there was the sound of something scratching feebly against the barrier of fallen rock. He jumped to his feet, re-lit the lantern, and directed its rays into the semi-darkness.

       At first, he saw nothing. Thee a battered and blood-stained face raised itself above the bank of grey stone, and a weak voice cried out, piteously: —

       "Water, for the love of heaven — water!"

       Tredegar stood aghast with horror. It was James Heatherbutt! The gift of speech had been restored to him, and the light of reason was flashing from his eyes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXVIII.
JAMES HEATHERBUTT.

       "Water!" repeated the wretched man, trying to scramble over the rock, and falling back in his weakness.

       "Water!"

       His voice was harsh and broken, and his tongue lolled slightly out of his mouth, like the tongue of a thirsty dog. Tredegar looked at him as though he had been some wild animal suddenly endowed with the gift of speech.

       Two brown hairy arms were thrust out through the opening, as if in supplication. Then the shaggy head of hair sank down between them, and the lingers were clasped together, and Tredegar heard a long moan of pain.

       He was so astounded at the reappearance of the man he had flung out to his death that for two or three minutes he was quite unable to clearly think out a proper course of action. His first instinct was to kill, to climb over the barrier and throttle the miserable wretch of humanity to death, to drag the body back into the recesses of the tunnel, where it would never be found, and to close, once and for all, as he thought he had already closed, the life-book of James Heatherbutt.

       But as he saw the clasped hands, and heard the piteous appeal for water, he knew that such a course had now been rendered impossible. The horror of the whole situation lay now in the fact that the man's reason had been restored to him, and that he had once more spoken in a human voice. This moaning object before him was no wild beast, but a man calling out to one of his fellows for a draught of water. It seemed possible to Tredegar that the violence of the combat and accomplished this extraordinary change, and that when he had beaten the mad brain into insensibility he had also broken down the crust of darkness that lay upon it, and let in the light of reason.

       The whole position was too horrible to contemplate. He only knew one thing, that he could not kill the wretched creature before him. He could not even let it die behind the grey barrier of rock. It would have been simple to do this. Heatherbutt was now in the last stages of exhaustion. He could not even climb out on to the shore. In another twenty-four hours he would, in all probability, perish of thirst and hunger. But Tredegar could not even do this. He had not hesitated to murder the "wild beast" in cold blood. But he could not even leave the "man" to die a natural death. The human voice, the human hands clasped in supplication, forbade all thought, of such a thing. Tredegar resolved to help Heatherbutt and leave the consideration of the future till a time when he could think more clearly, and find some possible solution in the numerous difficulties that confronted him.

       "I will get you water," he said, and he almost, started at the sound of his own voice. It seemed so strange to be speaking to the thing before him. It was like talking to a wolf that had just been trying to devour him.

       He made his way out into the open, and finding an old tin can on the track, filled it with water, and brought it back to Heatherbutt. The wretched man drank copiously, and then closed his eyes with a sigh of content, and once more his head sank down on his arms.

       "Are you hungry?" Tredegar said, abruptly.

       For answer Heatherbutt stretched out one hand. Tredegar shuddered. The fingers still looked like the claws of a wild beast. He drew out a large piece of bread from his knapsack and placed it in the outstretched palm. Heatherbutt devoured it ravenously, biting out large pieces with his yellow, broken teeth. Tredegar had knocked half of them down his throat.

       When he had finished, Tredegar helped him over the barrier of rocks, and the two men sat down a couple of yards from each other on the shingle inside the cave. Neither of them spoke. Tredegar filled his pipe. Heatherbutt blinked his eyes at the daylight, which was reflected from the sunlit beach outside. He seemed half dazed. He looked more horrible than ever in the light of day, and the intelligence, which had returned to his eyes only accentuated the brutality of his whole appearance. He had been terribly mangled in the combat with Tredegar. His great mouth was almost, toothless. The hair on his face was caked with dried blood. The back of his head was one dark red patch. His arms and legs were scarred with gashes, and his bare throat marked with the prints of the Welshman's fingers. His clothes were still wet, and resembled the fur of a drowned animal.

       Tredegar lit his pipe, and the fragrant smoke curled across the cave to Heatherbutt's nostrils.

       "Tobacco?" he said, in a grating voice.

       "Yes," Tredegar answered, holding out his pouch. Then he remembered that the man had no pipe.

       Heatherbutt, however, snatched the pouch, and, taking out half an ounce of tobacco, crammed it into his mouth and chewed it.

       "I'll lend you my pipe," Tredegar said.

       "This'll do," the man answered, and he rolled the bitter morsel round his mouth as a boy might do who wished to get the full flavour of a chocolate.

       "Wrecked, eh?" said Heatherbutt, after a long pause. "What, ship? And what the —– is this place? I wonder what has happened to those devils."

       "What devils?" asked Tredegar. He saw that Heatherbutt imagined he was still on the island of spiders, and that he (Tredegar) had been also cast away on its inhospitable shores.

       "The Walroyds," continued Heatherbutt. "May God curse their souls! I trust they are deep at the bottom of the sea!"

       "They are dead!" Tredegar answered.

       He knew now that he had much to tell this man, and that it would be very hard to tell.

       "How do you know they are dead?" growled Heatherbutt, clenching his hairy fists. "Have they returned to the island?"

       Tredegar hesitated for a minute. Then he made up his mind to face the situation.

       "This is no island," he replied, "but the coast of Cardiganshire, in Wales."

       "The coast of Wales," repeated Heatherbutt, slowly, and looking round with a dazed expression in his eyes. "Why, the treasure! Let me see!"

       And, rising to his feet, he stumbled up the bank of shingle and crawled on to the beach.

       Thou he saw the broad panorama of sea, and bay, and a single glance showed him that he was in no tropical climate. He passed his hand over his forehead and tried to think. It seemed to him that he had seen all this before, but darkly as in a dream.

       Tredegar came out to his side.

       "You must come back!" he said, sternly. "Your life is in dangler! They are hunting for you."

       And, taking him by the arm, he forced him back into the cave. "I do not understand," Heatherbutt replied in a feeble rasping voice, "How did I got here, and why are they hunting for me?" And yet as he asked this question he seemed to have the recollection of some horrible dream, in which he was for ever, killing and escaping from death.

       Again Tredegar hesitated. "I would rather not tell you," he said after a pause. "I will assist you as far as lies in my power to escape. I may even be able to provide you with money. I would rather you take my simple word that if you are caught, you will be hanged or shut up in a lunatic asylum for the rest of your life."

       "I have been mad then," replied Heatherbutt. "I knew it. I knew I was going mad. I have — tell me all. I insist upon it — the whole truth," and then once more the light of madness began to blaze in his eyes.

       "The Walroyds are dead," Tredegar said significantly.

       The man's brutish face was illuminated with a glow of triumph.

       "Have I killed them?" he asked, eagerly. "Have I killed them?"

       "You have killed them."

       "Thank God," he cried, "they deserved to die. Whatever I have done in my madness lies at their door. They tried to kill me, but they only succeeded in killing my reason. Their cruelty has recoiled on their own heads. I hope they died in agony."

       Tredegar shuddered. The brutality of the beast was rising once more in Heatherbutt's unbalanced mind.

       "You must leave this country at once," he said sternly. "If you do not promise to do so, I will kill you here with my own hands. If you knew all, you would kill yourself."

       "It is upon their heads," replied Heatherbutt, "the blood is upon their heads. Tell me everything. I shall feel no pangs of conscience. It is good to know that one has killed murderers. I have been an instrument in the hands of God — in the hands of God," and he sank down to the shingle, laughing wildly. Tredegar saw that he was still far from sane, and feared another outbreak of madness. However, he resolved to tell him all.

       He told the story as briefly and simply as possible, omitting all the horrible details, but impressing strongly on his hearer that the latter was a hunted man, and must leave the country immediately.

       When he had finished, Heatherbutt burst into a long peal of laughter.

       "So it is you that has suffered," he cried, "and yet you want to get me out of the country."

       "What do you mean?" said Tredegar sharply.

       "Why, when I have gone you will have no chance of proving your innocence. I shall be regarded as a myth, as an invention of your own brain. An imaginary scapegoat for your own sins."

       "Yet you must go," Tredegar replied. He was thinking of Cynthia. At any cost she must not meet this man. He owed that at least to her. It would be a part payment of his debt.

       "I shall be only too glad to go," Heatherbutt replied. "I shall not take a lot of persuasion. But you?"

       Tredegar shrugged his shoulders. He was prepared by now to take what blows fate might deal him. She had dealt him many hard buffets during the last few months, but none so hard as the loss of Myvanwy's love. Now that the first joy of his return to light and air was over, he began to realise that all the future was darkness.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXVIII — (Continued.)

       "I take my chance," he replied grimly. "But you must go."

       "I am as innocent as you," Heatherbutt said hoarsely. "I am innocent. It is they who are guilty — those two dead men. They made me what I am. The blood is on their heads. You do not know. You cannot understand what I have suffered."

       "I know part, of your story," Tredegar replied; "I had it all from Walroyd's own lips — on oath. I know all the history of the treasure."

       "Have they found it? Have they found it?" Heatherbutt broke in eagerly.

       "Yes," replied Tredegar. "They found it. Did I not tell you so just now. They were rich men and ——"

       "Part of it is mine," Heatherbutt cried fiercely. "I am a rich man."

       "You had better stay and claim it," Tredegar said drily. "I have no doubt the Government —–"

       "No, no, only give me enough to live on. It is yours, and you have earned it. I will go. But Walroyd? How much did he tell you?"

       "All the story of the treasure, and how you and he and his brother were the sole survivors of the Wisahickon," and Tredegar briefly sketched out Walroyd's story. When he had finished. Heatherbutt crawled over the shingle and thrust his shaggy face close to Tredegar's ear.

       "Went mad, did I?" he snarled. "Threw myself over the cliff, did I? Ain't that a sweet fairy tale? And you believed him, eh?"

       "I was sure he was lying," Tredegar replied quietly.

       "Lying," cried Heatherbutt, dashing his fist on the shingle. "Aye, indeed, and his portion is with the liars in hell. Listen to me. I will tell you the truth."

       "Up to a certain point," the man commenced, "Walroyd did not lie to you, and it is perfectly true that from the very first I had my suspicion of the two brothers. I do not think, however, that this was the outcome of insanity. On the contrary, as events turned out, I ought to have been more wary in my dealings with them. The life on the island, as you can guess, was intolerable. Quarrels were of everyday occurrence, and I carried my life in my hands from day to day. It was fortunate for me that the Walroyds were, like myself, unarmed, and that physically I was more than a match for the two of them."

       "One day the sullen jealousy and petty spite broke out into an open quarrel. I was determined to have part of the disc in my own keeping, and ensure the Walroyds' co-operation till the treasure was actually divided. I knew that they believed the words inscribed on it, and that they would do all in their power to avoid the prophecy of sorrow and death. I demanded half as my just right, and on being refused, did my best to secure it. The disc broke in the struggle, but I was victorious, and concealed my half in the sand, lest it should be taken from me while I slept."

       "I did not, however, size up the Walroyds correctly, or guess that avarice might easily get the better of superstitious dread.

       "One morning a ship appeared on the horizon, and all day we sat round a great pile of smoking brushwood, and laughed and sang as we saw it draw nearer to the shores of the island. In the delirium of joy. I was off my guard. I did not conceive it possible that anything could then come between me and freedom. It was clear that the ship had seen our signal and that it was coming to rescue us from the horrors of the island. I was frank, jovial, and unsuspicious. We ate our last meal round the crackling blaze, and saw the white sails come out of the sunset like the wings of an angel from the glorious depths of heaven. Night came on, and the pyramid of fire leapt up and crackled in the darkness. We sat round and talked of the wealth that was to be ours. Then I fell asleep.

       "When — I awoke it was broad day light, my hands and feet were bound, a shallow flood of water was surging round me, and I saw the hull of the ship low down upon the horizon. In an instant I realised my situation. I was left to perish on the island, and the rising tide was even then half a foot deep about me. I had been drugged, and consigned to a miserable death. By some miscalculation on the part of the brothers I had awoke too soon. They had evidently intended that I should never wake again. I raised my wrists to my face, and bit savagely at the creepers which bound them. A flood of salt water poured over me, and receded in a whirl of foam. I rolled over and over up the beach until I was out of reach of the tide. Then I gnawed through my bonds till I released my hands, and cut the bands of my feet with a broken piece of shell. A year afterwards I would have given much to have been fathoms deep under the waves I then so eagerly cheated of their prey.

       "No words of mine can possibly describe to you the horrors of the next three years. You yourself can imagine them, but you would probably find it difficult to describe them to another person."

       "The words carved in the cabin of the old ship?" queried Tredegar. "Were they yours?"

       "They were mine. I carved them in my last few weeks of sanity. Every day I cried aloud to God, who had but little cause to love me. 'Who shall deliver me from the body of this death.' And I wrote the sentence large on the place where I dragged out my miserable existence. I unearthed the half disc from its hiding-place and fastened it to my wrist. I had the consolation of thinking that if there was aught in the words inscribed on it, sorrow and death would pursue the Walroyds to whatever part of the world they had fled.

       "Day by day the inconceivable horrors of that loathsome island gathered round my brain like a cloud of poisonous vapours. I saw myself becoming as the beasts that perish. I began to move about on all fours. I found myself one day fashioning a little web out of string, on another I crept about catching insects and putting them aimlessly in my mouth. Then the memory of these awful days fades into oblivion, or into a misty dream, of which I can remember nothing but the fact that I was filled with the lust of blood and that something whispered to me, 'Kill, kill, kill,' and that yet my whole soul desired to escape from the living death that encompassed me.

       "I recollect nothing clearly till I found myself in darkness, with the water surging about me. I need tell you nothing of my fight for life, of the spar grasped blindly by a drowning man, of the escape through a hole in the roof, through which I floated into a tunnel in the rock, of the journey, sick and dizzy through the darkness, of the faint light of a lamp far ahead and the sound of human voices. You cannot comprehend what all this meant to one awaking from a long dream — the confusion, the despair, the fight for life, the ignorance of all that lay around me. But now you know, why I thank God that the Walroyds are dead and that they have died by my hand."

       He ceased speaking. Tredegar looked at him in pity and wonder. The man's rude eloquence, wrung straight from his heart by the memory of a great suffering and a great wrong moved him as no story had ever moved him before. His own sufferings had been nothing to this. He at least had no blood upon his hands. He at any rate had no wife to share his misery, or to be dragged down to the last depths of shame. Heatherbutt's future would be as terrible as his past. Only death would release the victim of the most cruel wrong that had ever been perpetrated for the lust of gold.

       "You were married?" Tredegar said after a pause. "Your wife?"

       Heatherbutt buried his battered face in his hairy hands. "My wife?" he said. "My wife?" and here was almost a note of tenderness in his grating voice.

       "You deserted her in America," Tredegar continued pitilessly.

       "It was for hew own sake," Heatherbutt replied. "I saw that my very presence was degrading her to my own level. I have much on my conscience, but nothing blacker than my marriage with that loving and pure-minded woman. I made her life a hell. I left her, not because I had ceased to care for her, but because my conduct had made her cease to care for me, because my very touch was loathsome to her. Because she saw deep into my soul and shrank from what she saw."

       Then he looked at his wrist, and clenched his hands.

       "I always wore this bracelet she gave me," he continued. "Even on that island it was a companion to me — my sole link with the love that might have raised my vile nature from the slime in which it wallowed, if it had not been so heavy and sunk so deep. I always loved her. I love her still. I hope that she has found and happiness. Perhaps she is dead."

       "Perhaps," replied Tredegar slowly, "as you say, she is dead."

 
CHAPTER XIX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.

       Myvanwy made her way to Llanfihangel, and took the first train to Trethol Junction. She returned among her own people as one who had risen from the dead. From the moment she arrived at the station till the time when she reached the gates of Llynglas, she was besieged with eager questions, and her hand was wrung a hundred times- by excited villagers. She refused, however, to give any information as to her escape from death, beyond the bare fact that she had been carried off by some terrible monster, and had managed to elude his clutches in the depths of the old Tredegar lead mine. She only gave this much information in order to clear Emrys Tredegar of any connection with the affair, and to set the local tongues wagging in the right direction. She learnt that her father had been buried the day before, and that a place laid been left by his side to receive her own body if ever it should be found.

       Directly she arrived at Llynglas she sent for the village constable, and persuaded him to send a telegram to the police sergeant who had assisted at the capture of Tredegar. The worthy man slightly resented this step as an insult to his own intelligence. But Myvanwy absolutely declined to make any full statement to him without the advice of his superior. He had, however, the consolation of taking the news of Walroyd's death to Garth, and of becoming himself a planet of considerable brilliance by viritue of reflected light.

       When the sergeant arrived, Myvanwy told him the whole story, only keeping back the fact that Tredegar was still hiding in the place where, they had escaped into the daylight. She wished to be quite sure that her lover was acquitted of the atrocious crimes laid to his charge before revealing his whereabouts. Sergeant Jones, however, a shrewd and kindly Welshman, guessed at the little secret that she hugged so close to her heart, and hastened to reassure her on this point. He told her that Walroyd's statement about the murder of Dennis Riley had already confirmed the suspicion that the police had formed ever since the death of David James — namely, that Tredegar was not responsible for any of the crimes which the newspapers and popular opinions had laid at his door. He told her that even when Tredegar was arrested on the beach, they had in their possession clear evidence that he could not have been the murderer of David James, and that he was only arrested on the strong representation of John Walroyd, who deposed on oath that Tredegar had attempted his life, and had slain the detective who had followed him from London. The sergeant added that her own story would be confirmed at the earliest opportunity, and that probably the body of the real murderer would be recovered and brought forward as evidence in Tredegar's favour. He finally assured her that the latter could now deliver himself into the hands of the law without any fear of the consequences, and that it was in the interests of justice that he should do so without further delay. When, he had gone, Myvanwy went upstairs and put on the only black dress she possessed. Since Tredegar found her in the mine her thoughts had been all for her lover, and the loss of her father had been almost thrust out of her mind. But in the lonely house at Llynglas the past came back to her in a flood of memories. John Morgan had been a hard man, but in his own rough way he had loved his only child, Myvanwy went up to his empty bedroom and burst into tears. Then she fell on her knees beside the bed and prayed. In that hour she only remembered the the best and truest part of her father's life; she only recalled the kindly words; the rest was blotted out from her mind; like the sundial, she only marked the sunny hours.

       She rose to her feet and clasped her hands. Then she crossed over to the window, and drawing up the blinds, let in the sunshine. Then she gave a last look at the empty bed, and going softly from the room, closed the door and locked it.

       After this simple act of piety and affection, her thoughts turned once more to the living. She ordered the carriage, and told the man, half groom, half gardener, to drive her down to the station. She intended to take the next train to Llanfihangel, and tell Tredegar the result of her interview with the sergeant of police. It was now 8 o'clock in the afternoon, and if she did not catch the 3.35 train, she would not be able to get back that night.

       Before the carriage came round to the door, however, there was the sound of wheels on the drive, and a loud ring at the bell. She slipped into the hall and caught the old butler as he was on his way to answer the door.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXIX. — (Continued.)

       "I cannot see anyone, James," she said hurriedly. "Say I am not at home," and she slipped back into the drawing-room. Through the half open door she heard the butler arguing politely with someone who insisted on coming in. At that moment there was the sound of the carriage coming round to take her to the station, and she saw that her lie would be patent to the visitor.

       "Very well," she heard a feminine voice say decidedly, "I will wait here till Miss Morgan, comes out. I must see her. Perhaps you will kindly take in my card."

       A few minutes later the old man hobbled into the room and handed a card to Myvanwy. She glanced at it, and told the butler to show the lady in. It was Cynthia Cantrip.

       The latter entered with a faint flush on her cheek, and a dangerous sparkle in her eyes.

       "You have a faithful servant," she said drily. Then she saw Myvanwy's face, white and drawn with all the suffering she had been through, and she noted the black dress, and remembered that this was no time for bitter words. She advanced with outstretched hands, and taking hold of Myvanwy's cold white fingers, leant forward and kissed her on the check.

       "Forgive me, dear," she said almost tenderly; "I have no wish to intrude on your sorrow. I only heard an hour ago that you had returned. It is natural that I should wish to see you."

       "Would you have been very sorry if I had never returned," said Myvanwy, in a low voice.

       "I should have been very sorry," Cynthia replied. "During, the last few days the thought of your death has been very horrible to me. I am not a good woman, Myvanwy, but now that Emrys is safe and has passed out of both our lives, a voice has whispered to me that I have done both you and him a great wrong. Every night I have seen your face, white and still, every night I have looked on your body, bruised, torn, and broken. And all the time he has stood by your side, and there was that in his eyes that will haunt me to the day of my death. I do not like you, Myvanwy. I could never be much troubled about your happiness. But I cannot bear that he should go through life in misery. I did my best to tempt him from you. I have failed. He will never love me. I had almost made up my mind, although I thought you to be dead, that I would never see him again. Men like Emrys do not love more than once, and he would love you even if you were in your grave. The news of your return to life has only confirmed the resolution, I did not know I was so weak. But somehow the pity of it all has touched my heart. I seem to have come into your lives both to help and to destroy you. I am only a woman after all. I might have been all good or all evil. As it is I have been both. I wish now to blot out the evil. Perhaps this is only a passing qualm of consciousness. To-morrow I may desire to blot out the good. But to-day have come to give you back your lover. You must trace him at any cost. I have money here with me," and pulling out a thick packet, of bank notes, she held them out to Myvanwy.

       "What do you mean?" gasped, Myvanwy. There was a knock at the door and the butler entered.

       "There is only just time to catch the train, miss," he said.

       "It does not matter," she answered. "Tell Williams I will drive all the way to Llanfihangel." The man left the room.

       "What do you mean, Cynthia?" she repeated eagerly.

       "I mean," Cynthia replied slowly, "that I release you from your oath, and that you can marry Emrys Tredegar as soon as you can find him."

       Myvanwy looked at the speaker in astonishment, then she moved towards her, and throwing her arms about her neck, buried her face on her shoulder and burst into tears. Cynthia frowned, and gently disengaged the arms from her neck. Then she took the white face in her two I hands and gazed into the tearful eyes.

       "You silly child," she said. "Why should you cry? Look at me. There is no tear in my eyes. And yet — I think my heart is broken." And turning away from Myvanwy, she walked over to the door, and had her hand on the knob. Then she came back and held out the notes Myvanwy shook her head.

       "I don't want them," she said in a trembling voice. "Emrys is in England still. He came back to look for me when he saw the news. He it was who killed that horrible monster and saved me from death. He is within a few miles of here. I am told by the police that his acquittal is assured."

       "Emrys here!" said Cynthia. "Then you have fooled me — you have — no, no, I don't mean what I say. I am glad that he is here. I shall leave Garth to-night. Now that Walroyd is dead there is no need, for my father to stay. We can go up by the night mail. But Emrys here! Tell me all that has happened. You owe me that at least."

       "I owe you everything," she said, taking Cynthia's hand and pressing it to her lips. "May I drive you back to Garth? I must be at Llanfihangel before it is dark."

       Cynthia glanced at the clock. "You will not do it if you go round through Garth," she said. "I will come with you to Llanfihangel. I should like, to see Emrys once more. I know it is foolish of me to do so, but we women are fools sometimes. You have much happiness before you, Myvanwy. I have much sorrow. I should like to come with you — just for the last time."

       "You shall certainly come," said Myvanwy. "He would like you to come. You have been a good friend to him. Oh, Cynthia, if it was not for — if only things had been otherwise, we should all three be happy to-day — all three be friends."

       "Let us go," Cynthia said hoarsely, moving towards the door. "We have only just time to get to Llanfihangel — before it is dark."

       Myvanwy followed her from the room and they both stepped into the victoria which was waiting at tho door. Cynthia sent her own trap, hired from the Tredegar Arms, back to Garth, and instructed the man to tell her father that she should not be back till late, and might possibly spend the night with Miss Morgan.

       As they trotted briskly along the road to Llanfihangel, Myvanwy told Cynthia all that had happened to her during the last few days. She spoke in a low voice so that the man on the box could not hear, but her story lost nothing of its strangeness and horror by her quiet method of telling it. She remembered Tredegar's warning, and ran over Walroyd's narrative in a few hurried words.

       Cynthia was particularly fascinated by the account of the hidden treasure, and she told Myvanwy how her father had been employed to dispose of it in London, and that the mere commission he received on the transaction had made him a wealthy man. When Myvanwy had finished, Cynthia put her fingers to her throat, and drew out the half of the gold disc which she wore suspended from a thin gold chain.

       "Take this," she said, passing the chain over her head. "It is the only thing Emrys has over given me. I have no right to it. I can only hope that when the two halves are once more in the possession of the same person, all the sorrow and death connected with the treasure will come to an end."

       Myvanwy took it in silence, but there were tears in her eyes, and her hand stole gently to Cynthia's fingers. The latter looked away from the girl's face, and seemed to be entirely absorbed by the scenery through which they were passing.

       When they reached Llanfihangel, they drove to the north end of the parade and told the man to take the horse to the Red Lion and return in an hour's time. Then they descended a flight of steps from the parade and made their way along the shingle.

       It was now long after five o'clock, and the tide was rising. The sun had set almost to the level of the sea, and a great bank of clouds above it glowed with crimson and gold. The cliffs at this part of the coast towered up almost perpendicularly from a narrow belt of sand dotted with great boulders. The walking was easy in comparison with some parts of that rock-strewn shore, but Myvanwy was so tired that she could hardly drag her weary limbs across the sand, and more than once Cynthia had to stop and hold her arm to prevent her from falling.

       At last they passed round a projecting point of the cliff and came in view of the place where Tredegar was hiding. No one looking at it from where they stood would have supposed that behind the heap of rock lay the entrance to mile after mile of subterranean passages. Even those who crept between the rocks would find themselves faced with a great bank of shingle, and would merely suppose that the small cavern over their heads was a hollow scraped out in the base of the cliff by the ceaseless action of the sea. It was small wonder that no one had even discovered the steps leading to the long passages that lay beyond the barrier of pebbles.

       The two women made their way towards the place, and when they were twenty yards away, from it Myvanwy called Emrys's name loudly, three times. She did not, care who heard it now. There was no reply, and the only sound was the splash of the waves against some large boulders that lay half covered by the sea, and the plaintive cries of some sea-gulls that hovered about the cliffs a hundred feet above her head.

       "He is asleep," she said softly. "He must be worn out. I will go. and wake him."

       Myvanwy went close up to the rocks peered through an opening. She could see the bank of shingle beyond, but the place was empty. She called out to Cynthia, who came forward, and stood by her side.

       "He is not here," Myvanwy said. "Where can he have gone. Ah, perhaps he is beyond the shingle. It would be darker there, a better place to sleep in, and it would not be so damp — see, the stones- are still wet with the last tide."

       She slipped through the opening between the rocks, and Cynthia followed her. The latter shivered as she entered the little cavern. It seemed very dark and cold. She thought it very unlikely that any one would go to sleep in such a place, especially a man who had had rheumatic fever.

       "He is probably, as you say, asleep on the other side of these stones," she said. "You had better call out to him."

       Myvanwy went across to the shingle, and climbed up the bank till she reached the opening Tredegar had made. She leant over into the dimly-lighted cave beyond, and called his name. Her voice echoed down the long passage, but no one replied. She began to be alarmed though she reassured herself by remembering that it would take more than the sound of a girl's voice to wake a man who had been for three days without sleep.

       Then both the women heard the faint sound of footsteps in the distance, and a look of eager expectation crossed their faces. The sounds were faint and muffled. Then suddenly they heard a long rasping cough, and the sound seemed quite close to them, though the footsteps appeared to be a long way off. They had entirely misjudged the distance. The person who had approached so close to them must have worn felt slippers or else walked on his bare feet. They both started. Then they leant over the bank of shingle and peered into the twilight beyond.

       "Emrys," Myvanwy cried. "It is all right, Emrys! I have such news for you — such splendid news." She stopped. No one answered, but she could hear the sound of breathing.

       "Why don't you answer, Emrys?" she continued nervously, and with a tone of vexation in her voice.

       Then suddenly something moved on the other side of the shingle, a loud yell of rage broke the silence, two great, hairy arms shot out from the gap above the stones, two great hands grasped the two women, and a horrible yellow mass of hair was thrust out into the light. The light of reason had once more vanished from the eyes. James Heatherbutt had relapsed again into insanity.

       He drew the two shrieking women towards him, and glared into their white faces. And it was thus, after an interval of ten years, that husband and wife were fated to meet, again.

 
CHAPTER XXX.
"ONE OF THE THREE MUST
DIE: BUT WHICH?"

       Neither of the two recognised each other. Cynthia could discern nothing of her husband's features in the bruised and horrible face before her, while Heatherbutt's madness clouded his brain and blotted out all recollections of the past. The light, moreover, was dim, and Cynthia's back was towards it.

       The madman drew the shrieking women over the top of the bank of shingle, and flung them down on the floor of the cave beyond. Their voices echoed through the long passage, but could scarcely be heard from the shore owing to the intervening rocks and pebbles. They were no mere idle cries of terror, but uttered as loudly as possible in the hope that they might reach Tredegar's ears. Myvanwy knew that he could not be far off.

       "Stop that screeching." growled Heatherbutt; and they stopped from sheer astonishment at the sound of the voice.

       Cynthia had never seen the monster before, but she had understood from Myvanwy's story that it was dumb. Myvanwy herself was as overcome with horror as Tredegar had been when he first heard a human voice crying from those bestial lips. Then a quick flash of hope illuminated her mind. If the thing could speak, it was human, and might bu moved to pity.

       "Where is Mr. Tredegar?" she said faintly, "I expected to find him here."

       Heatherbutt laughed wildly, and pointed into the darkness of the passage. Myvanwy's heart grew cold, for there was the ring of madness in that horrible laugh, and she realised that she could expect no reply from a homicidal maniac. Then a horrible thought struck: her.

       "Where is he?" she cried piteously; "Oh, Cynthia, he is dead — he has been killed!"

       She struggled to her feet and laid her hands on a piece of sharp rock, prepared to fight for her life. Heatherbutt laughed, and rubbed his hands together with glee. She hurled the lump of stone at him, and it glanced harmlessly off his arm. Myvanwy sank to the ground, her feeble strength was exhausted, and she lay helpless, with her face buried in her hands. Heatherbutt sprang towards her, and picking up some pieces of cord, began to bind her hand and foot. He did not notice that Cynthia had drawn something from her hat, and was silently dragging herself over the rocky floor to wards him.

       Then he heard a faint sound behind him, and, turning quickly round received five inches of a stout steel hatpin, driven with all the strength of a desperate woman, in the upper part of his arm. Another second, and he would have been too late, and the long weapon would have pierced him through the back to the heart. He sprang to his feet with a yell of pain, and lifting up the wretched woman with the other hand hurled her down to the rock with so much force that she lost consciousness. Then he began to pull out the pin from his arm, yelling horribly, For the point had turned on a bone, and it made a fearful wound as he dragged it out through the quivering flesh.

(TO BE CONCLUDED.)

---

 
CHAPTER XXX. — (Continued.)

       Heatherbutt's returning madness was now goaded to a wild frenzy, which saw the whole world through a mist of blood, and which only heard a voice culling out to him to slay and spare not. The blood trickled down from his arm, and he sucked the wound savagely with his lips, till there was a crimson froth on his great toothless jaws. He sprung forward with crooked fingers as though he was about to tear the two women to pieces. Then he suddenly restrained himself, and, stooping down, he bound Cynthia's hands and feet.

       When he had accomplished this, he sat down and regarded his two victims with a grin of satisfaction, licking his lips as he saw their prostrate bodies on the ground. Three days ago he would have battered the life out of them in less than a minute, but he had only partially lost the reason that had been restored to him. Previously he had been a mere wild beast that killed because its natural instinct was to do so. Now he was more than half human — a man with a monomania, with the lust of killing in his heart. and sufficient method in his madness to kill in a way that would give him the most pleasure. And so, instead of falling upon his two victims and destroying them us quickly as possible, as a lion or tiger might have done, he sat down and contemplated them, thoughtfully, trying to think out how he could make them suffer before death released them from their agony.

       "Emrys! Emrys!" murmured Myvanwy.

       Heatherbutt laughed. In all respects but one he was now a sane man, and he understood everything that was said to him.

       "Either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is on a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked," he cried out mockingly, calling to mind a verse of the Bible which was familiar to him in the days of his childhood.

       Myvanwy shuddered. It was terrible to hear such words from those lips. She saw that the man still had his wits about him.

       "Have pity!" she cried, feebly. "We have never done you any harm. Where is he? Oh, Emrys, come quickly! Emrys! Emrys!" and she raised her voice to a scream.

       Heatherbutt laughed again. Then he rose to his feet and leant over the barrier of rocks behind him.

       "Emrys!" he yelled, mimicking her voice. "Come quickly! Emrys! Emrys!"

       Then he crawled up the pile of broken slate, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

       Ten minutes afterwards Myvanwy heard the sound of something heavy being dragged over the ground, and then Heatherbutt's face appeared over the heap of rock.

       "He has answered you," he said, with a ghastly grin.

       Myvanwy grew cold as death, and stared at the evil face with parted lips and a look of horror in her eyes.

       "He is dead!" she shrieked. "He is dead!"

       And she tried to struggle to her feet, but fell backwards, and cried out the name of her lover.

       Again Heatherbutt laughed. Then he began to remove the rocks from the barrier one by one, till he had made a large opening. Then he crawled through, half-lifting, half-dragging, something after him. He laid his burden close to Myvanwy. It was Emrys Tredegar, and his eyes were wide open. He was alive, but his hands and feel were bound, and his mouth was gagged with handkerchief.

       "Emrys! Emrys!" cried Myvanwy. "Thank God you are alive!"

       In the dim light she could hardly see his face, but she heard the creak of the straining cords that bound his hands, and saw the flashing of his eyes. If only she could free him, they would all be saved. He would tear this inhuman monster limb from limb.

       The meeting appeared to amuse Heatherbutt. He dragged Tredegar to the wall and set him with his back against it. Then he arranged the other two in a similar position at distances of two yards apart. He was like a child playing with three dolls.

       Then he sat down in front of them and rubbed his hands together. The blood was still running from the wound in his arm.

       Cynthia gave a sigh, and opened her eyes. At the sight of Tredegar she gave a cry of surprise. She had been placed between him and Myvanwy. She leant over towards him, but could not get near enough to whisper in his ear. Then she faced Heatherbutt with flashing eyes.

       "What is all this foolery," she said. "Do you know that the police are now on your track, that they are coming here this evening, to find Emrys Tredegar? They were only half an hour behind us."

       "So much the more need for haste," Heatherbutt, answered. "I will not detain you longer than I can help. It will be very pleasant for me to see you all die. But I have decided to spare one of you. Do you think you can decide among yourselves which one it will be?"

       The three prisoners looked at each other and then on the ground before them. Tredegar was unable to speak, but he indicated by a motion of his bound hands that he at any rate would not take advantage of Heatherbutt's offer.

       "You can kill me," said Cynthia, casting a loving look at Tredegar. "You can kill me!" Myvanwy was silent.

       Of a truth the madman's offer had been most devilishly devised. None of the three would care to live when the other two were dead. For life would mean nothing to either Myvanwy or Tredegar if one of them were killed, and Cynthia, who might have found a savage pleasure in seeing the death of the man who had scorned her love, or of the woman who had been her successful rival, had only one thought uppermost in her mind — that her own life was worthless, and ought to be the first to be taken. But Tredegar alone grasped the real terror of the situation — namely, that Cynthia was Heatherbutt's wife, but his lips were sealed.

       "Come, hurry up," snarled Heatherbutt, stretching out his muscular arms as though he longed to seize something by the throat. They were still all three silent. He chuckled. This was worth a dozen deaths any day of the week. He was sufficiently sane to appreciate the difficulties of the situation. He noted the look of love in both women's eyes as they glanced at Tredegar, and he saw that Tredegar only gazed at one of them.

       "I will decide for you," he cried. "The man shall die, and you," pointing to Myvanwy, "shall be the next." He had some hazy recollection that Tredegar was his enemy, and he longed to choke the life out of him. Besides, in his animal cunning he realised that if he let the man go, his own life would not be worth a moments purchase.

       "No," cried Cynthia. "You have offered us our choice. Let fate decide. We will draw lots. Hold three pieces of stick, or cord, or anything in your hand. We will draw them. The one who draws the longest shall live. The one who draws the shortest shall die first. That is fair."

       Heatherbutt was silent. His brain was trying to grasp Cynthia's words. Then he broke into a laugh and clapped his hands.

       "A great game," he cried, "a great game."

       Then he groped about among the shingle and found three thin little pieces of stick, dry and brittle as touchwood. He laid them on his palm, and looked at them. They were all of different lengths. But he did not show them to his victims. Then he placed his hands behind his back, and held out one great hairy fist, from which three short ends of stick protruded.

       Tredegar was the first to draw, then Cynthia, and then Myvanwy took the last piece. In the twilight none of them could see the length that the other held awkwardly in their fettered hands. Then Myvanwy thought she heard a little snap on her left, so faint that it was scarcely audible.

       Heatherbutt looked at their faces and grinned. He had purposely not shown them the pieces before they drew. They were still in uncertainty as to their fate.

       "Hold them up," he said, and they held up the twigs between two fingers. He went to each and examined the fatal pieces of wood. Myvanwy's was the longest, Tredegar's the next in length, and Cynthia's the shortest of all. But neither Tredegar, nor Myvanwy, nor Heatherbutt knew that half of Cynthia's piece had been snapped off and lay upon the ground by her side.

       Heatherbutt took Cynthia up in his arms. She uttered the single word "Good-bye" and looked Tredegar straight in the eyes. Myvanwy fainted. Tredegar placed his bound hands to the gag that had silenced him and tore at it with his fingers till the knot at the back of his neck seemed to be cutting through his spine. Inarticulate sounds broke from his throat. Then he tried to struggle to his feet. But it was all over in a second. There was no cry, no moan, not a sound, but a faint snap, such as Cynthia herself had made as she broke the twig in her white fingers. Heatherbutt laid the dead body on the ground, and laughed long and loudly.

       Then all of a sudden the laughter died away in his throat and he pressed his hands to his forehead, and staggered blindly towards Tredegar. The latter had succeeded in forcing the bandage from his mouth. The corner of his lip was split, and the blood ran down his face. He managed to get to his feet, and leant against the wall panting, and with his great arms uplifted to strike the shaggy figure that was coming towards him, and ward off the fingers that he knew would be soon at his throat.

       But Heatherbutt suddenly stopped in his advance, and stared wildly round the cavern. Tredegar watched his face, and saw the madness die from his eyes, like the last spark from a glowing ember. This was the moment of his revenge, and he resolved to spare the madman nothing of the horror of the situation. The dead body of Cynthia called for vengeance.

       "Where am I?" said Heatherbutt, faintly, "and why do you stand there with your hands like that?"

       "My hands are bound," Tredegar replied slowly. "You were kind enough to bind them while I slept. You have just done the foulest deed of your vile life. Look behind you."

       Heatherbutt looked and saw the limp form of Cynthia Cantrip. He bent down and stared into the wide open eyes. Then he grasped the body and lifted it up so that the light which came over the top of the shingle fell full on the face. The past came back upon him like a wave of fire, scorching all the blood from his body, and stiffening the muscles till it seemed as though they had been dried into strips of bone.

       "My wife," he muttered in a trembling voice. "My wife — my wife!"

       "Your wife," replied Tredegar, glancing at Myvanwy, who was still unconscious. Heatherbutt laid the body tenderly on the ground.

       "My wife," he cried in a voice of anguish, staggering back from the silent form. Then he sank upon his knees, and began to crawl towards it, blubbering like a whipped child. and only muttering the words, "My wife! Cynthia, my wife! my dear wife! my dear wife!"

       When he reached the side of the dead woman he touched the hair with his fingers and remained silent for quite five minutes, passing his hand over his face and peering into the eyes. Then he bent his head down and made as though he would kiss the lips. But it seemed as though a sheet of glass lay between them and his own horrible mouth. He could draw no nearer to them.

       Then suddenly he rose to his feet with a terrible cry of anguish, and seizing his own throat with his muscular fingers, he literally tore it apart, holding open the gaping flesh, till the blood streamed down his arms, and he rolled over, and fell with a crash to the ground.

       There was the sound of voices outside, and the footsteps of men on the sand. Tredegar staggered over to the dead body of the woman who had done so much for him, and, stooping down, kissed her reverently on the forehead, and thanked God in his heart that she had died without knowing the awful history of her husband's life.

The End.