LITMIR.BIZ

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window, and left her mistress to wait on herself.

      “Phoebe,” said Lydia, when the dishes were removed; “you may go to the gate lodge, and ask them there what the policemen want. But do not go any further. Stay. Has Ellen gone to the castle with the things?”

      Phoebe reluctantly admitted that Ellen had.

      “Well, you need not wait for her to return; but come back as quickly as you can, in case I should want anybody.”

      “Directly, miss,” said Phoebe, vanishing.

      Lydia, left alone, resumed her work leisurely, occasionally pausing to gaze at the distant woodland, and note with transient curiosity a flock of sheep on the slope, or a flight of birds above the tree-tops. Something more startling occurred presently. A man, apparently half-naked, and carrying a black object under his arm, darted through a remote glade with the swiftness of a stag, and disappeared. Lydia concluded that he had been disturbed while bathing in the canal, and had taken flight with his wardrobe under his arm. She laughed at the idea, turned to her manuscript again, and wrote on. Suddenly there was a rustle and a swift footstep without. Then the latch was violently jerked up, and Cashel Byron rushed in as far as the threshold, where he stood, stupefied at the presence of Lydia, and the change in the appearance of the room.

      He was himself remarkably changed. He was dressed in a pea-jacket, which evidently did not belong to him, for it hardly reached his middle, and the sleeves were so short that his forearms were half bare, showing that he wore nothing beneath this borrowed garment. Below it he had on white knee-breeches, with green stains of bruised grass on them. The breeches were made with a broad ilap in front, under which, and passing round his waist, was a scarf of crimson silk. From his knees to his socks, the edges of which had fallen over his laced boots, his legs were visible, naked, and muscular. On his face was a mask of sweat, dust, and blood, partly rubbed away in places by a sponge, the borders of its passage marked by black streaks. Underneath his left eye was a mound of bluish flesh nearly as large as a walnut. The jaw below it, and the opposite cheek, were severely bruised, and his lip was cut through at one corner. He had no hat; his close-cropped hair was disordered, and his ears were as though they had been rubbed with coarse sand-paper.

      Lydia looked at him for some seconds, and he at her, speechless. Then she tried to speak, failed, and sunk into her chair.

      “I didn’t know there was any one here,” he said, in a hoarse, panting whisper. “The police are after me. I have fought for an hour, and run over a mile, and I’m dead beat — I can go no farther. Let me hide in the back room, and tell them you haven’t seen any one, will you?”

      “What have you done?” she said, conquering her weakness with an effort, and standing up.

      “Nothing,” he replied, groaning occasionally as he recovered breath. “Business, that’s all.”

      “Why are the police pursuing you? Why are you in such a dreadful condition?”

      Cashel seemed alarmed at this. There was a mirror in the lid of a paper-case on the table. He took it up and looked at himself anxiously, but was at once relieved by what he saw. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m not marked. That mouse” — he pointed gayly to the lump under his eye-”will run away tomorrow. I am pretty tidy, considering. But it’s bellows to mend with me at present. Whoosh! My heart is as big as a bullock’s after that run.”

      “You ask me to shelter you,” said Lydia, sternly. “What have you done? Have you committed murder?”

      “No!” exclaimed Cashel, trying to open his eyes widely in his astonishment, but only succeeding with one, as the other was gradually closing. “I tell you I have been fighting; and it’s illegal. You don’t want to see me in prison, do you? Confound him,” he added, reverting to her question with sudden wrath; “a steam-hammer wouldn’t kill him. You might as well hit a sack of nails. And all my money, my time, my training, and my day’s trouble gone for nothing! It’s enough to make a man cry.”

      “Go,” said Lydia, with uncontrollable disgust. “And do not let me see which way you go. How dare you come to me?”

      The sponge-marks on Cashel’s face grew whiter, and he began, to pant heavily again. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go. There isn’t a boy in your stables that would give me up like that.”

      As he spoke, he opened the door; but he involuntarily shut it again immediately. Lydia looked through the window, and saw a crowd of men, police and others, hurrying along the elm vista. Cashel cast a glance round, half piteous, half desperate, like a hunted animal. Lydia could not resist it. “Quick!” she cried, opening one of the inner doors. “Go in there, and keep quiet — if you can.” And, as he sulkily hesitated a moment, she stamped vehemently. He slunk in submissively. She shut the door and resumed her place at the writing-table, her heart beating with a kind of excitement she had not felt since, in her early childhood, she had kept guilty secrets from her nurse.

      There was a tramping without, and a sound of voices. Then two peremptory raps at the door.

      “Come in,” said Lydia, more composedly than she was aware of. The permission was not waited for. Before she ceased speaking a policeman opened the door and looked quickly round the room. He seemed rather taken aback by what he saw, and finally touched his helmet to signify respect for Lydia. He was about to speak, when Phoebe, flushed with running, pushed past him, put her hand on the door, and pertly asked what he wanted.

      “Come away from the door, Phoebe,” said Lydia. “Wait here with me until I give you leave to go,” she added, as the girl moved towards the inner door. “Now,” she said, turning courteously to the policeman, “what is the matter?”

      “I ask your pardon, mum,” said the constable, agreeably. “Did you happen to see any one pass hereabouts lately?”

      “Do you mean a man only partly dressed, and carrying a black coat?” said Lydia.

      “That’s him, miss,” said the policeman, greatly interested.” Which way did he go?”

      “I will show you where I saw him,” said Lydia, quietly rising and going with the man to the door, outside which she found a crowd of rustics, and five policemen, having in custody two men, one of whom was Mellish (without a coat), and the other a hooknosed man, whose like Lydia had seen often on racecourses. She pointed out the glade across which she had seen Cashel run, and felt as if the guilt of the deception she was practising was wrenching some fibre in her heart from its natural order. But she spoke with apparent self-possession, and no shade of suspicion fell on the minds of the police.

      Several peasants now came forward, each professing to know exactly whither Cashel had been making when he crossed the glade. While they were disputing, many persons resembling the hooknosed captive in general appearance sneaked into the crowd and regarded the police with furtive hostility. Soon after, a second detachment of police came up, with another prisoner and another crowd, among whom was Bashville.

      “Better go in, mum,” said the policeman who had spoken to Lydia first. “We must keep together, being so few, and he ain’t fit for you to look at.”

      But Lydia had looked already, and had guessed that the last prisoner was Paradise, although his countenance was damaged beyond recognition. His costume was like that of Cashel, except that he was girt with a blue handkerchief with white spots, and his shoulders were wrapped in a blanket, through one of the folds of which his naked ribs could be seen, tinged with every hue that a bad bruise can assume. A shocking spectacle appeared where his face had formerly been. A crease and a hole in the midst of a cluster of lumps of raw flesh indicated the presence of an eye and a mouth; the rest of his features were indiscernible. He could still see a little, for he moved his puffed and lacerated hand to arrange his blanket, and demanded hoarsely, and with greatly impeded articulation, whether the lady would stand a dram to a poor fighting man wot had done his best for his backers. On this some one produced a flask, and Mellish volunteered, provided he were released for a moment, to get the contents down Paradise’s throat. As soon as the brandy had passed his swollen lips he made a few preliminary sounds, and then shouted,

      “He

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