LITMIR.BIZ

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      And rest your little head,

      And in your white arms wind me,

      Before that I be dead.’”

      “Why, dear Alice, will you choose that dismal song, when you know that Mr. Longcluse has so many others that are not only charming, but cheery and natural?”

      “It is because it is unnatural that I like that song so much; the air is so ominous and spectral, and yet so passionate. I think the idea is Icelandic—those ghostly lovers that came in the dark to win their beloved maidens, who as yet knew nothing of their having died, to ride with them over the snowy fields and frozen rivers, to join their friends at a merry-making which they were never to see; but there is something more mysterious even in this lover, for his passion has unearthly beginnings that lose themselves in utter darkness. Thank you very much, Mr. Longcluse. It is so very kind of you! And now, Lady May, isn't it your turn to choose? May she choose, Mr. Longcluse?”

      “Any one, if you desire it, may choose anything I possess, and have it,” said he, in a low impassioned murmur.

      How the young lady would have taken this, I know not, but all were suddenly interrupted. For at this moment a servant entered with a note, which he presented, upon a salver, to Mr. Longcluse.

      “Your servant is waiting, Sir, please, for orders in the awl,” murmured the man.

      “Oh, yes—thanks,” said Mr. Longcluse, who saw a shabby letter, with the words “Private” and “Immediate” written in a round, vulgar hand over the address.

      “Pray read your note, Mr. Longcluse, and don't mind us,” said Lady May.

      “Thank you very much. I think I know what this is. I gave some evidence to-day at an inquest,” began Mr. Longcluse.

      “That wretched Frenchman,” interposed Lady May, “Monsieur Lebrun or——”

      “Lebas,” said Vivian Darnley.

      “Yes, so it was, Lebas; what a frightful thing that was!” continued Lady May, who was always well up in the day's horrors.

      “Very melancholy, and very alarming also. It is a selfish way of looking at it, but one can't help thinking it might just as well have happened to any one else who was there. It brings it home to one a little uncomfortably,” said Mr. Longcluse, with an uneasy smile and a shrug.

      “And you actually gave evidence, Mr. Longcluse?” said Lady May.

      “Yes, a little,” he answered. “It may lead to something. I hope so. As yet it only indicates a line of inquiry. It will be in the papers, I suppose, in the morning. There will be, I daresay, a pretty full report of that inquest.”

      “Then you saw something occur that excited your suspicions?” said Lady May.

      Mr. Longcluse recounted all he had to tell, and mentioned having made inquiries as to the present abode of the man, Paul Davies, at the police office.

      “And this note, I daresay, is the one they promised to send me, telling the result of their inquiries,” he added.

      “Pray open it and see,” said Lady May.

      He did so. He read it in silence. From his foot to the crown of his head there crept a cold influence as he read. Stream after stream, this aura of fear spread upwards to his brain. Pale Mr. Longcluse shrugged and smiled, and smiled and shrugged, as his dark eye ran down the lines, and with a careless finger he turned the page over. He smiled, as prizefighters smile for the spectators, while every nerve quivered with pain. He looked up, smiling still, and thrust the note into his breast-pocket.

      “Well, Mr. Longcluse, a long note it seems to have been,” said Lady May, curiously.

      “Not very long, but what is as bad, very illegible,” said Mr. Longcluse gaily.

      “And what about the man—the person the police were to have inquired after?” she persisted.

      “I find it is no police information, nothing of the kind,” answered Longcluse with the same smile. “It comes by no means from one of that long-headed race of men; on the contrary, poor fellow, I believe he is literally a little mad. I make him a trifling present every Christmas, and that is a very good excuse for his plaguing me all the year round. I was in hopes this letter might turn out an amusing one, but it is not; it is a failure. It is rather sensible, and disgusting.”

      “Well, then, I must have my song, Mr. Longcluse,” said Lady May, who, under cover of music, sometimes talked a little, in gentle murmurs, to that person with whom talk was particularly interesting.

      But that song was not to be heard in Lady May's drawing-room that night, for a kindred interruption, though much more serious in its effects upon Mr. Longcluse's companions, occurred. A footman entered, and presented on a salver a large brown envelope to Miss Alice Arden.

      “Oh, dear! It is a telegram,” exclaimed Miss Arden, who had taken it to the window. Lady May Penrose was beside her by this time. Alice looked on the point of fainting.

      “I'm afraid papa is very ill,” she whispered, handing the paper, which trembled very much in her hand, to Lady May.

      “H'm! Yes—but you may be sure it's exaggerated. Bring some sherry and water, please. You look a little frightened, my dear. Sit down, darling. There now! These messages are always written in a panic. What do you mean to do?”

      “I'll go, of course,” said Alice.

      “Well, yes—I think you must go. What is the place? Twyford, the ‘Royal Oak?’ Look out Twyford, please Mr. Darnley—there's a book there. It must be a post-town. It was thoughtful saying it is on the Dover coach road.”

      Vivian Darnley was gazing in deep concern at Alice. Instantly he began turning over the book, and announced in a few moments more—“It is a post-town—only thirty-six miles from London,” said Mr. Darnley.

      “Thanks,” said Lady May. “Oh, here's the wine—I'm so glad! You must have a little, dear; and you'll take Louisa Diaper with you, of course; and you shall have one of my carriages, and I'll send a servant with you, and he'll arrange everything; and how soon do you wish to go?”

      “Immediately, instantly—thanks, darling. I'm so much obliged!”

      “Will your brother go with you?”

      “No, dear. Papa, you know, has not forgiven him, and it is, I think, two years since they met. It would only agitate him.”

      And with these words she hurried to her room, and in another moment, with the aid of her maid, was completing her hasty preparations.

      In wonderfully little time the carriage was at the door. Mr. Longcluse had taken his leave. So had Richard Arden, with the one direction to the servant, “If anything should go very wrong, be sure to telegraph for me. Here is my address.”

      “Put this in your purse, dear,” said Lady May. “Your father is so thoughtless, he may not have brought money enough with him; and you will find it is as I say—he'll be a great deal better by the time you get there; and God bless you, my dear.”

      And she kissed her as heartily as she dared, without communicating the rouge and white powder which aided her complexion.

      As Alice ran down, Vivian Darnley awaited her outside the drawing-room door, and ran down with her, and put her into the carriage. He leaned for a moment on the window, and said—

      “I hope you didn't mind that nonsense Lady May was talking just now about Miss Grace Maubray. I assure you it is utter folly. I was awfully vexed; but you didn't believe it?”

      “I didn't hear her say anything, at least seriously. Wasn't she laughing? I'm in such trouble about that message! I am so longing to be at my journey's end!”

      He took her hand and pressed it, and the carriage drove away. And standing

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