LITMIR.BIZ

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will sufficiently to again stagger to her feet, and strive to find her bearings. With outstretched hands she wandered, trying to gain a glimpse of some light, but all in vain.

      Then began a nightmare journey through the gloomy woods. Here was a girl in the heart of London, as wholly lost as a babe in some primeval forest. She stumbled here and groped there in an aimless fashion, until her senses became so confused that she did not know what to do. Several times she dropped, several times she rose, and for hours, as it seemed, she moved onward towards an ever-receding goal. Doubtless she was moving in a circle after the fashion of the lost, and in her vague wanderings she lost all count of time. In her heart she began to wish that the dawn would come to reveal her whereabouts, as in this darkness she certainly would never succeed in escaping from the enchantments of this urban wood. And so Patricia dragged on and the night dragged on, and the effort to get back to light and humanity became a journey in eternity towards--as it seemed to her now bewildered senses--a goal which had no actual existence.

      How long she wandered she did not know, having lost count of time, but finally her instinct moved her in the right direction, and she gained the broad path. But it was not the one she had strayed from, as she speedily ascertained when she chanced upon a policeman.

      "The path to Bayswater, miss," he said, turning the bull's-eye light on her face and wondering at her haggard looks and bedraggled dress. "Why, you're right on the other side of the Park, miss, near the statoo."

      Patricia knew that this was so, for above her in the foggy air rose the lofty pedestal of the Achilles statue. She must have wandered deviously across the vast space of the Park, and said so. The policeman readily accepted her explanation and added one of his own:

      "I dessay you've got lost in the fog, miss, and no wonder, for it's as thick as pea-soup hereabouts. Not the night for a young lady to be out, miss," he ended inquisitively, and with a note of interrogation in his voice.

      "I came out on an errand," said Miss Carrol faintly, for the adventure had left her weak, "and wandered off the Bayswater path near the Serpentine."

      "And it's a mercy, miss, that you didn't fall in. What will you do now, miss?"

      Patricia walked with him towards the gate, near the clock. "Call me a cab," she said, for although she could ill afford it, she decided to drive, as it was quite impossible to walk. The fog forbade pedestrianism, let alone that she was much too weary to trudge all the way to Crook Street.

      "What; a cab, miss? Certainly, miss, although it will be hard to find one in this fog," and the constable whistled shrilly.

      "What is the time, please?" Patricia asked the same question as she had put to the other policeman.

      "Half-past eleven, miss."

      The girl uttered a cry of astonishment, and well she might. Having left The Home of Art at half-past eight, she must have been wandering about for at least three hours. It seemed centuries, and she hastily made for the cab which drove slowly up, looking like a spectre in the fog. What would Mrs. Pentreddle think of her being absent for so long? But this question was nothing beside the one which the old lady was bound to ask with respect to the lost emerald. "Tell the man to drive to No. III, Crook Street, Bayswater," said Patricia feverishly, and bestowed herself in the hansom; "and here!"--she handed the kindly policeman one of her precious coins, which he accepted with a salute, and gave the necessary direction to the driver. In a few minutes Patricia was on her homeward way, thankful that her strange adventure had not cost her her life, as it might have done.

      But her thoughts were extremely unpleasant. She had lost her umbrella, which she could ill afford to do; also the lantern of Mrs. Pentreddle, and, worst of all, the extraordinary jewel she had been sent to fetch. How could she explain? The only answer she could find was the very obvious one, that it would be best to tell the truth. Then she began to think what words she would use, until her head became confused and she dropped into an uneasy sleep. Meanwhile the cab crawled slowly and cautiously through the fog, towards The Home of Art. Patricia was made aware that she had arrived at her destination by the sudden jerk of the vehicle, as it came to a standstill. Then, still sleep-bemused, she alighted in a stumbling manner to find herself in the arms of Mrs. Sellars.

      "Oh, my dear! where have you been? It's terrible; it's terrible!" and the good lady wrung her fat hands. "Oh, what is to be done?"

      "What is terrible?" asked Patricia stupidly, for her head ached.

      "Mrs. Pentreddle, my own sister; poor dear Martha is dead!"

      "Dead!" Patricia felt her weary legs give way with sheer terror.

      "Dead!" repeated Mrs. Sellars, weeping. "Murdered! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

      "Dead! Murdered!" Patricia echoed the words faintly, then fell unconscious at the feet of the weeping, distracted old actress.

      "Why did you go out? Where have you been? Martha is dead--murdered!" she babbled incoherently.

       CHAPTER III

      AFTERWARDS

      Patricia recovered her senses to find that she was lying on her own bed, in her own room. Beside her sat fat Mrs. Sellars, with many restoratives, and with a look of anxiety on her tearful face. When Miss Carrol opened her eyes and asked vaguely where she was, Ma uttered an exclamation of pleasure and thankfulness.

      "Oh, what a fright you gave me, dropping down as though you were shot," she said, producing a damp handkerchief. "I thought it was another murder, and that you had taken poison, or----"

      "Wait!" Patricia with sudden vigour sat up in bed and grasped the woman's arm. "You used the word murder when I fainted."

      "And I use it now, my dear," said Mrs. Sellars, with some asperity. "What other word is to be used in connection with a cut throat?"

      "A cut throat!" Patricia stared at her blankly.

      "Oh, don't tie me down to words," wailed Mrs. Sellars, placing her fat hands on her fat knees and rocking. "Stabbed in the throat would be better, I daresay, if there can be any better in connection with the tragic death of my own and only sister. Martha and I never got on well together, but----"

      "Ah, yes," interrupted Patricia, passing her hand across her forehead with a bewildered air, as a full recollection of what had taken place came back to her suddenly. "Mrs. Pentreddle has been murdered. You said that, and I fainted at the door."

      "And very naturally," lamented Mrs. Sellars dolefully. "I'm sure I'd faint myself, if it wasn't that I am needed, with doctors and policemen in the house. And after such a happy evening, too," she continued, placing her handkerchief to her red eyes. "Sammy's play was such a success. I'm sure it will go on at a West End theatre and have quite a run."

      Patricia ruthlessly cut short this babble, as she was yet in the dark as to what had taken place during her absence. "Will you tell me who killed Mrs. Pentreddle?" she asked, with some sharpness.

      "No, I won't, my dear, because I can't, my dear. I should rather ask you that very question, seeing that you were left in charge of her with that sprained foot of hers. Why did you go out and leave Martha all alone in this big house, and where did you go, and why are you home so late, and----?"

      "I shall answer all those questions in the presence of the police-officer who has charge of the case," said Patricia firmly, and gathering her Irish wits together to face a very awkward situation. "I can exonerate myself."

      "Oh, my dear! no one ever accused you."

      "Someone might accuse me," said the girl dryly. "People are always prone to believe the worst of one." She scrambled off the bed. "Will you please tell me exactly what has taken place while I bathe my face and change my dress?"

      "What wonderful self-command you have, my dear!" said Mrs. Sellars admiringly; "it's a thing I never have had. I'm sure when Bunson met me at the door to say that Martha was lying in the drawing-room with her jugular bleeding and all the blood out of her body--not that she ever had much,

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