A “NOVEL” NOVEL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 By Lady Constance Hotuard. 
 
 5 society’s darling. 
 
 ’’ <i And all went merry as a marriage bell.” 
 
 Lord Byron, Childe Harold , 
 
 ' <* All, me 1 the distant days, Sweetheart, 
 
 And all that might have been.” 
 
 Lady Arthur Hill, Y esteryear . 
 
 A glorious June day, one to be remembered in 
 even t’nat most gracious of all the fair months that 
 bonstitute a year. 
 
 r A soft, balmy, baby breeze, bringing a little re- 
 newed vitality to poor mortals suffering from a 
 really scorching June sun ; a sky of turquoise blue, 
 unrelieved by so much as one fleecy cloud, and for 
 the scene of what may prove a blessing, but which 
 oftener, alas ! turns out a tragedy, the well-known 
 Church of St. George’s, Hanover Square. 
 
 How many lives have been forever marred by a 
 brief sojourn in its decorous aisles ; how few have 
 been crowned with the complete happiness which 
 marriage should really give those who take upon 
 themselves its responsibilities. 
 
 With Emerson, we ask: “Is not marriage an 
 open question, when it is alleged from the beginning 
 of the world that such as are in the institution wish 
 to get out, and such as are out wish to get in ? 
 Every moment the crowd of eager sightseers be- 
 
4 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 comes more dense. They come from all quarters 
 seemingly all districts of London have sent repr< 
 sentatives, from peeresses to flower-sellers. 
 
 Why such a tremendous fuss ? What is there i 
 this special marriage to attract so much, such uni 
 versal attention ? 
 
 Only this, that the bridegroom bears a nam 
 which has descended in an unbroken line fron 
 father to son for many generations, and alway 
 been borne with honor. The present owner of th 
 title is no exception to his ancestors. Everyon 
 has a good word for him, which he richly deserves 
 He is young, g-ood-looking, almost too rich; hii 
 name is a synonymous term for charity, sympath, 
 and good deeds ; he is the last of his race, and he ii 
 about to marry the one and only woman that h 
 ever has or ever can love. 
 
 There is no skeleton in his cupboard. 
 
 He has taken his place with his best man in at 
 tendance, and is impatiently and joyously waiting 
 his darling’s arrival. 
 
 Presently Guardsmen file into the church, ant 
 line the two sides of the aisle up to the altar steps 
 for the Duke of Mowbray — “ Society’s Darling,” a 
 he is called — is in the Coldstreams, and is belovei 
 alike by officers and men. 1 
 
 The Guardsmen’s red tunics make a bright spo 
 in the church, which is decorated with the rares 
 flowers. 
 
 Presently the organ peals forth, as quickly th 
 invited guests pass to their allotted places. Outsid 
 the crowd is getting impatient. They want som 
 one to amuse them, and they have exhausted a! 
 their ideas in remarks upon the dress, manners an 
 
 ' i , 
 
A e< NOVEL ” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 5 
 
 appearance of those already assembled. Fame has 
 preceded the bride. They one and all know, that 
 rf all England’s fair daughters, none can excel, few 
 equal, the transplendent beauty of the future 
 duchess, a widow of seven-and-twenty, whose hus- 
 band, it was believed, was killed after a gambling 
 quarrel in New York, two years before. She was 
 childless, and fairly well off. 
 
 At last the expectant crowd are rewarded for 
 their extreme patience by the arrival of the bride, 
 as fair a one as ever the sun shone on. Everyone 
 pushes forward, toes are trodden upon, and people’s 
 elbows prove very aggressive ; but the crowd is a 
 good-tempered one, and they give and take their 
 neighbors’ undesired attentions with smiling forti- 
 tude and an indifference to pain that is almost 
 sublime. 
 
 The long-desired moment has arrived, and, as 
 they gaze on the fair lady who is carefully handed 
 out by the gentleman who is to give her away, they 
 'acknowledge unanimously, both silently to them- 
 selves and by most openly expressed admiration, 
 that their long waiting has an adequate reward. 
 
 Slowly Lady Seringa Arkell, for such is her 
 quaint and pretty name, proceeds along the red- 
 carpeted way into the church, and, with a sweet 
 iignity and graceful bearing, walks up the aisle to 
 where the duke is awaiting her. No need to ask if 
 theirs shall prove a happy marriage, “a true 
 union of hearts,” as it ought ever to be ; for Lady 
 Seringa’s eyes as she raised them to the Duke’s 
 were shining with happiness, and the intense love 
 she so truly felt for him — for him, because he was 
 himself y just the one man in the wide world for her, 
 
6 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 the only one, not because he was a duke, or for air 
 worldly advantages he could give her. 
 
 The Duke on his side seemed equally radiant. L 
 there any among the manifold gifts God showen 
 upon His people so great as the soul-absorbing 
 pure, ennobling influence of an intense love of ; 
 man for a woman, a woman for a man ? Wher 
 vouchsafed to mortals, should they not cherish it 
 and feed the flame of their affection by every mean* 
 in their power ? As it is in time , so when genuine i 
 lasts into, and, I believe, through eternity . 
 
 The bride’s dress is a triumph bf the dress 
 maker’s art. It is of silvery shining gray, the long 
 train, bodice, and sleeves being of satin, brocadec 
 in bouquets of seringa, myrtle, and carnations, tied 
 with true-lovers’ knots, the flowers being in pearls, 
 the knots in silver ribbon, woven into the satin, 
 The front of the dress is veiled in priceless point 
 d’Alengon, while the bonnet is gray, to match the 
 dress, and a gray tulle veil shows through its trans- 
 parent folds her lovely face. A necklace, earrings! 
 and bracelets of diamonds, worth a king’s ransom 
 and an enormous bouquet of the same flowers as 
 her dress is brocaded with, tied with gray satin ane 
 silver ribbon embroidered in pearls, completes ; 
 toilette that shows her tall, lovely figure to th 
 greatest advantage by its rich simplicity. 
 
 She has a complexion like a rose that the morn 
 ing sun has just kissed into life, great violet eye 
 with long, curling dark lashes, and masses of hai 
 of a golden brown, that are coiled round her shape! 
 head and rest lovingly in a soft fringe on herbroac 
 low, white forehead ; her nose is all that the ac 
 cepted canons of beauty require it to be, and as fo 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 7 
 
 her mouth, it is the crowning* beauty of her lovely 
 face. 
 
 The Duke is her equal in every respect, with his 
 , good, and handsome face, and soldierly 
 
 mple than the two now standing before the 
 [ Archbishop at the altar, eager and willing to plight 
 f their troth, as they have already done so sincerely 
 | in their loving hearts. 
 
 ! The short service was most impressively read ; 
 soon the Archbishop came to the words which gave 
 the Duke and Seringa for ever to each other : “For- 
 asmuch as Carrol Urlin and Seringa Desiree have 
 consented together in holy wedlock, and have wit- 
 nessed the same before God and this company, and 
 thereto have given and pledged their troth either 
 to other, and have declared the same by giving and 
 receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands ; I pro- 
 nounce that they be man and wife together, in the 
 1 name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
 Holy Ghost. Amen.” 
 
 One brief glance was exchanged between the two ; 
 fleeting though it was, it held an eternity of love, of 
 thankfulness, and inexpressible happiness. 
 
 The rest of the service was soon over, so was the 
 ] signing of the register. Then, as the organ pealed 
 forth that lovely Wedding March, the Duke and 
 Duchess of Mowbray proceeded slowly down the 
 ! aisle, stopping frequently to receive the congratula- 
 
 In short, the world cannot show a hand- 
 
8 
 
 A 
 
 NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 would have done anything in the world to prevent 
 her marrying*. But the Duke had a will of his own, 
 he had run the gauntlet unscathed of several London 
 seasons, and he valued the attentions of the match- 
 making mothers and the cool, calculating daughters 
 at precisely their true worth. 
 
 He knew very well that the fickle jade, Fortune, 
 with a turn of her wheel could deprive him of all 
 his worldly advantages, and make him a nobody 
 and a poor man ; that those who now flattered him 
 and made up to him most assiduously would be the 
 very first to pass by on the opposite side of the road 
 with averted eyes, if they saw him coming. 
 
 He loved Seringa, because she was herself, for 
 the same reason that she loved him, and she was, 
 the only woman in the world who had stirred to its 
 depths the intense affection of which he was equal, 
 while he had raised in her heart an equally absorb- 
 ing passion. 
 
 Well was she named “ Desiree/’ for in very 
 truth she was “ His Heart’s Desire.” 
 
 As soon as the carriage had driven off, the 
 Duke drew his wife into his arms, and pressed upon 
 her sweet lips a tender kiss, murmuring as he did 
 so — 
 
 “ My wife ! My own at last, thank God ! ” 
 
 They received a cordial greeting from the crowd 
 who had assembled at the house of the Duke’s 
 favorite sister, the Marchioness of Allonby, where 
 the wedding breakfast was to be given. 
 
 The presents were magnificent, the jewels oi 
 surpassing splendor, and the trousseau fit for ar 
 empress. 
 
 The band of the Coldstreams was stationed it] 
 
A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 9 
 
 jbhe garden, and played divinely ; all was life, and 
 5*ayety, and joyousness. 
 
 Nothing could be imagined that could add to the 
 lappiness of the assembled guests ; and those who 
 [(appreciated the efforts of an unrivaled chef were 
 (amply rewarded by the variety and excellence of 
 jbhe dishes set before them. 
 
 The cake had been cut by the bride, her health 
 '^nd that of the Duke had been duly honored, and now 
 (Seringa Mowbray had left the guests for the purpose 
 of changing her dress for her traveling costume ! 
 
 Her husband followed her ; he wanted to give 
 her his first present since she became his wife. 
 
 It was a broad gold band, set in sapphires and 
 ((diamonds, forming the words Loyal a Mort. In the 
 ( center was an oval with the Duke’s miniature, with 
 llbhe coronet and initials in the same stones, and his 
 hair on the other side, which formed the lid ; and 
 ' inside the band was engraved the date of their mar- 
 flfriage, and the words, “ This and my heart.” 
 
 { The Duke clasped the bracelet on his wife’s arm, 
 and, kissing her passionately, said : 
 
 “ Do not be long, my darling ; we have only just 
 time to get to the station.” He also went to don 
 his traveling clothes. 
 
 Twenty minutes later he came downstairs, and 
 went into his sister’s boudoir for a few last words, 
 with her. 
 
 ; 
 
 Lady Allonby was charmed with the marriage ; 
 it was at her home that the Duke had first met 
 Seringa. Lady Allonby had known her, too, at the 
 ime of her husband’s death, and before it; and 
 ady Allonby only knew the tragedy her life had 
 een while married to Mr. Arkell. 
 
10 
 
 She had married him, that his money mi 
 
 A “ NOVEL 99 NOVEL. 
 
 save her father from ruin • the father to whom sh] 
 had been so devoted, and the consequences had beej 
 utter misery to herself. 
 
 He drank, he gambled, he betted, he insulteo 
 his wife by every means in his power. I 
 
 One day he was missing. He had lost heavilj 
 the night before, and though every possible searclj 
 had been made for him, neither dead nor alive wal 
 he ever seen again. It was thought he was drowned] 
 and after living in complete solitude for eight yearsd 
 Lady Seringa met the Duke, loved him as he ioveq 
 her, and finally married him— a fit termination t<| 
 all her years of misery. 1 
 
 “ Surely you ought to be going,” said LadJ 
 Allonby ; “it will take half an hour to get to thl 
 station. I will go and hurry Seringa.” I 
 
 Sc saying, she ran upstairs. ] 
 
 A quarter of an hour elapsed, and the Duke wal 
 just going to send to say the carriage was waiting! 
 when Lady Allonby ran into the room with coni 
 sternation on her features. I 
 
 “ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the Duke, “ whal 
 is wrong ? ” I 
 
 “ Oh ! my darling brother, how can I tell you! 
 Seringa is gone ! She is not in her room, she is no* 
 in the house ! Where can she be ? ” I 
 
 The Duke stood like one stunned, then suddenly 
 he rushed from the room, ran to the room wheijl 
 his wife had been dressing. Everything was il 
 confusion, not even a line from his wife to explaiB 
 her conduct ; she had disappeared without leaving 
 a trace behind her ! ■ 
 
 The extraordinary event had become known 
 
11 
 
 A 6( NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 Sthe guests, and great was their sympathy for the 
 1 unfortunate bridegroom. 
 
 Silently they dispersed ; for what could they say 
 Iw do in a sorrow such as this ? 
 
 So night came on, and the silvery rays of the 
 noon fell upon a bridegroom of a few hours, bereft 
 )f his bride, for not a trace of the Duchess of Mow- 
 bray was to be discovered. She had vanished as 
 completely as if the events of the morning had 
 never occurred ; she was as utterly lost as if she 
 had never existed ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 By Miss Lane . 
 
 BEREFT. 
 
 “ A dirge in marriage.”— Shakespeare, Hamlet « 
 
 “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, 
 
 Seem to me all the issues of this world.”— Ibid. 
 
 “ By Jove ! ” exclaimed Derrick Tredegar, in 
 the billiard-room of the Carnation Club, the even- 
 ing of the Duke of Mowbray’s wedding-day: 
 “here’s a pretty muddle ; what on earth does it 
 all mean ? ” 
 
 “What does what mean?” asked the man to 
 whom he addressed his question, a young Guards- 
 man called Clive Lyndhurst. “ Explain yourself, 
 man ! how on earth can any one reply without 
 something a little more definite as to the informa- 
 tion you require ? ” 
 
 > “ Beg pardon, old fellow,” said Derrick, “ but 1 
 
 really am so bewildered that I hardly know what 1 
 am saying. I allude to this paragraph in The Even- 
 
12 
 
 A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 ing Comet about Mowbray ; it says that his wife hai 
 disappeared ! ” 
 
 “ Absolutely true / 5 replied Clive. “ I was a] 
 the wedding, and when the time came for them fct j 
 start olf on their honeymoon, we all waited wit 
 the utmost eagerness to see the bride come down(j 
 she is quite lovely, as you know. 
 
 “Well, our patience /as not rewarded. W 
 waited, and waited, all to no purpose ; and at las - 
 Lady Allonbj^ want upstairs to hurry the Duchesi 
 and tell her that they would lose their train. 
 
 “ She did not return for some time ; and, whei 
 she did, she passed us all with a face as white as 
 ghost, and hurried to Mowbray. 
 
 “In about ten minutes Lady Allonby returned! 
 and told us that the Duchess had actually disap 
 peared, leaving no more trace than if she had neve] 
 existed. There was not *a word, a line — nothing 
 and she had taken nothing with her of her jewelr 
 except a bracelet which Mowbray had given he 
 and, of course, her wedding-ring. 
 
 “ Her maid could give no explanation ; she ha< 
 only left her for a few minutes to finish some pac! 
 ing. When she returned, she found the room 
 empty ; but concluded that the Duchess had gon^ 
 down, as she knew there was not much time t< 
 spare; 
 
 “ !N~o note, or telegram, or message had bee! 
 given to her as far as the maid knew, nor had an 
 one been admitted to see her. 
 
 “ The room in which the Duchess changed he^ 
 dress opens into the garden, and there is a gate i 
 the wall immediately opposite the door, this wa' 
 being fairly low ; but there were no traces of foot! 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 13 
 
 steps. Who could possibly have spoken to the 
 Duchess ? and, granting 1 that some one did so, who 
 on earth held an influence over her strong* enough 
 to compel the Duchess — whom all the world knows 
 is so utterly devoted to her husband — to disappear 
 so absolutely as she has done, without even a word 
 of excuse or farewell ? ” 
 
 “ It is awful/’ said Tredegar. “ What is to be 
 done ? I never heard of such a thing in all my life, 
 did you ? ” 
 
 “ Never/’ replied Clive, c< and I do not wish to. 
 I never m all my life saw anything to equal the ex- 
 pression of agony and hopeless despair on poor 
 Mowbray’s face, as he realized that his bride of a 
 couple of hours, the wife he idolized, the woman he 
 had loved so well and so faithfully, was utterly lost 
 to him. It was enough to make a strong man cry to 
 see him, so gentle, so courteous, even in this ap- 
 palling misfortune, to all his guests.” 
 
 “ What has been done about it ? ” asked Trede- 
 gar. 
 
 “ Everything,” replied Clive ; “ Allonby went 
 with me to Scotland Yard — you know, Mowbray is 
 the greatest friend I have in the world — and we set 
 the whole machinery there at work at once ; but 
 the Duchess had a good start by the time the de- 
 tectives began their work, a start which any one 
 evidently as clever and determined as she is will not 
 be slow to utilize. 
 
 “All that is certain is that she has disappeared, 
 why or wherefore we do not at present know ; I 
 doubt that we ever shall. 
 
 “ As for Mowbray, I have only just left him. He 
 is like a lunatic; nob raving, but with an expres- 
 
14 
 
 A ‘ ‘ NOVEL 5 5 NOVEL. 
 
 sion of pathetic misery on his face that I have never 
 seen equaled. I will not answer for his brain, if his 
 wife never returns to him.” 
 
 “ What is your theory on the subject ? ” asked 
 Derrick; “ if it was a man who had disappeared, 
 we should without delay look for the woman.” 
 
 “ My theory,” replied Lyndhurst, “ is that we 
 have simply to reverse the position of affairs and 
 look for the man.” 
 
 “ What ! ” exclaimed Derrick, “ you really 
 think that most lovely and charming* woman is un- 
 faithful to Mowbray — to the man who adores her, 
 and to whom she has been for so long devoted ? ” 
 
 “ Souvent femme varie,tres fort est qui si fit,” re- 
 sponded Lyndhurst, with a shrug of his shoulders 
 and a cynical smile, as he carefully selected a choice 
 cigarette from his case and lighted it ; “ far be it 
 for me to say what any woman will or will not do, 
 even the Duchess of Mowbray, with position, youth, 
 untold wealth, matchless beauty and the utter de- 
 votion of the only man in the world she has ever 
 seemed to care for.” 
 
 “But,” insisted Derrick, “her name has never 
 been coupled, by even the greatest scandal-monger 
 in London, with that of any man ; we all know she 
 was a widow, and we have no reason to doubt that 
 her husband was really and truly drowned ; she 
 has no enemies that any one ever heard of, and she 
 does not give one the impression that she has a 
 secret husband and family in the background, and 
 has, therefore, committed bigamy.” 
 
 “ It is altogether too mysterious,” rejoined 
 Lyndhurst. “ I never w T as so puzzled in my life ; I 
 regret her extraordinary disappearance extremely 
 
A “ NOVEL 5 ’ novel. 15 
 
 , for her own sake, for no one could help being de» 
 ] voted to her who knew her ; and I regret what has 
 j happened a thousand times more for Mowbray’s 
 f sake, for if there can be such a thing as a broken 
 heart, which I for one do not doubt, Mowbray will 
 own that undesirable, possession if his wife is not 
 found.” 
 
 “ Poor old chap ! ” said Derrick, pityingly ; 
 “ was there ever such hard lines for any fellow ? ” 
 
 “I must go,” said Lyndhurst. “I promised 
 Mowbray to stay there to-night ; I can’t bear to 
 think of him alone in his misery ; have a B. and S. 
 and come with me, Tredegar, and hear if there is 
 any news.” 
 
 “ Willingly,” replied Tredegar. 
 
 The B. and S. duly drunk, the two young fellows 
 left the club, and, hailing a hansom, soon found 
 themselves at their destination. Lyndhurst sprang 
 out and rang the bell, followed more leisurely by 
 Tredegar. 
 
 “ What news ? ” asked Lyndhurst of the butler. 
 
 “None, alas! sir,” replied the butler; “his 
 Grace seems nearly mad.” 
 
 “ Shall I go to him ? ” asked Lyndhurst. 
 
 “ If you please, sir, and Captain Tredegar also.” 
 
 So with quiet footsteps, the two wended their 
 way to the room which the Duke had made his 
 special sanctum. 
 
 “ Good heaven ! ” murmured Tredegar under his 
 [ breath, as he first saw his old friend. 
 
 Was it possible that a few short hours could 
 ) change any one so much ? 
 
 Not only possible, but certain. 
 
 No man or woman can really love, without show- 
 
16 A “novel” novel. 
 
 mg' traces of acute suffering on their faces, if any- 
 thing happens to separate them from the one per- 
 son in the world they care for ; and under such 
 extraordinary and tragic circumstances the agony 
 must be intensified a hundredfold. It is a terrible 
 thing to have your whole life bound up in that of 
 another person, to have your very existence depend- 
 ing upon the love and constancy they give or with- 
 hold from you, and such was the poor Duke’s un- 
 happy fate. He had never loved any woman but 
 Seringa, and to lose her in this unaccountable fash- 
 ion so short a time after they Avere married was 
 enough to turn his brain. 
 
 “ Lyndhurst, dear old friend, what shall I do ? ” 
 he exclaimed ; “ there is no trace of my darling 
 to be found. I do not suppose I shall ever see her 
 again.” 
 
 And he sank into a chair, and buried his face 
 in his hands, a prey to anguish so keen that the 
 two men could only stand by in silent sympathy 
 for a grief that seemed beyond human consolation. 
 
 Thus for some time they remained, until Lynd- 
 hurst could stand it no longer ; so he laid his hand 
 upon the Duke’s shoulder Avith a tender pressure, 
 and said : 
 
 “ Do not lose heart, dear old fellow, it is all too 
 marvelous, too sad ; but I have a feeling, and I am 
 seldom wrong in my presentiments, that all will 
 yet be well, and that the Duchess will return to 
 you, or at any rate be found, and then you can go 
 to her. You may have to wait some time ; but I 
 do not believe that Providence, who has given you 
 to each other after all your love and constancy, Avill 
 dash your cup of happiness to the ground, and ne\ T er 
 
a. 
 
 A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 17 
 
 let you enjoy the happiness you both so thoroughly 
 deserve. It is so short a time since our search has 
 ! begun, with no shadow of a trace to work upon. 
 
 Oi You must acknowledge that the task is a severe 
 one, but not, I hope and think, an insurmountable 
 one. I know it sounds very cruel to preach pa- 
 tience to any one suffering as you, Mowbray, are 
 doing ; but it is the only counsel I can at present 
 give you. 
 
 ,f Tis ill men’s office to speak patience 
 To those that wring under the load of sorrow. 
 
 And I feel sure, were I in your place, I should not 
 bear such a crushing blow a quarter as well.” 
 
 “ Pray Heaven you may never have such a fate 
 as mine,” answered Mowbray, in a despairing voice. 
 tc You cannot imagine what it feels like, to realize 
 (and facts must be faced) that T shall, perhaps, 
 never see my darling again. I feel as if I should 
 go mad. The awful uncertainty of what has be- 
 come of her, what has happened to her, who has 
 taken her away, is what knocks me over so com- 
 pletely. It would be easier to bear to know her 
 dead, and that there was no terrible other future 
 in store for her, than know she has simply van- 
 ished, and that, if I live to be an old man, I may 
 never see my wife again ; my last recollections of 
 her, her look of love, and the passionate kiss she 
 gave me as she disappeared into that fatal room 
 to change her dress, to begin with me the journey 
 of life together, when we should be together, until 
 | death called one of us to himself ; and then I know, 
 if I had been the survivor, her death would have 
 soon re-united us, for I cannot, I will not, live with- 
 out Seringa.” 
 
18 
 
 A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 (C 
 
 
 Sobs shook the strong man’s frame, no disgrace 
 to his manhood, for they were tears of blood forced 
 from his heart by the agony of passionate love and 
 regret for his darling that he was enduring. j 
 
 Surely so strange a fate had never befallen a t 
 happy husband, to be bereft of his wife almost as 
 soon as they had become man and wife. 
 
 A bridegroom without a bride ! 
 
 The Duke soon recovered himself, and, with the 
 lovable smile that made his handsome face such a 
 winning one, he turned to the two young men and \ 
 said : 
 
 “You will forgive me, I know,” holding out a 
 hand to each as he spoke. 
 
 “ I should rather think so,” said Derrick, heart- 
 ily. “ May I make a suggestion, a practical one — 
 namely, that you, Mowbray, should have something 
 to eat and drink ? You have touched nothing since 
 the blow fell upon you, and you will want to hus- 
 band all your strength for the task in front of you ; 
 will you let me ring for something to be brought 
 to you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said the Duke, “ although I do not think 
 I can swallow a morsel ; but it would be very un- 
 grateful to refuse any suggestion of either of you, 
 my two valued and proved friends.” 
 
 So the bell was rung, and very soon a dainty 
 repast was served to the three gentlemen, while the 
 butler, who had grown white in the service of the i 
 Mowbray family, father and son, poured them out 
 the best champagne the famous Mowbray cellars 
 could boast of. 
 
 After a few minutes, Mowbray half rose, saying, , 
 “It’s no use, food seems to choke me.” 
 
A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 19 
 
 (£ 
 
 ?? 
 
 ) Bsut Lyndhurst made him sit down again, quietly 
 observing, as be put a glass of champagne into his 
 ( I hand : 
 
 “Do you not think that your wife would wish 
 you to keep your strength up by eating and drink- 
 ing what you can ? ” 
 
 He had touched the right chord, and, obedient 
 as a little child, the Duke did as he was told. 
 
 Suddenly he turned, if possible, paler than he 
 already was. 
 
 “ What is it ? ’ 9 exclaimed Tredegar and Lynd- 
 hurst in a breath. 
 
 “ Do you think Seringa has committed suicide ? ” 
 asked the Duke, in a voice of anguish. 
 
 “ Not for one moment,” th^ both replied, in- 
 stantly. “ There is not one thing to point to such 
 a conclusion. She has no madness in her family, 
 and besides that, my dear Mowbray, a woman does 
 not usually commit suicide the day she marries the 
 one man the world holds for her, whom she loves 
 with all her heart and soul,” said Lyndhurst. 
 “ No ! dismiss that idea from your mind at once 
 and for ever ; if your wife is dead, she has been 
 ^ murdered or died from an accident ; I would stake 
 my life that she has never taken her own.” 
 
 “So would I, really,” said the Duke; “ but no 
 idea seems too improbable for my brain to enter- 
 tain it.” 
 
 “ I suppose,” said Lyndhurst, “ every nook has 
 been searched for the slightest clew.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the Duke, “ and absolutely without 
 * success ; come and see for yourselves.” 
 
 So they adjourned to the room in which Seringa 
 had changed her bridal dress. 
 
20 
 
 A “NOVEL” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 “ What has become of the Duchess’s wedding- | 
 dress?” asked Lyndhurst. 
 
 “Is it not here?” asked the Duke. “I never 
 thought of that ; we will ring and ask her maid.” 
 
 The maid could give no information ; she thought 
 her Grace had gone away in it. 
 
 “ I suppose she did ; but, if so, I cannot imagine 
 how it w r as that she has not been traced,” said 
 Tredegar. “ People do not generally walk about 
 the streets in full bridal attire.” 
 
 As he spoke, he ran his hand along the paneled 
 wainscoting of the room, and suddenly, without any 
 warning, one panel flew open, disclosing a dark 
 background, with something white in a corner. 
 
 “Good heavens!” said the Duke, “what is 
 that ? ” 
 
 To draw it out was the work of a second. It 
 was poor Seringa’s wedding toilette, thrust in 
 hastily, as if by hurried, trembling hands. Every- 
 thing was there, to the magnificent jewels she had 
 worn, her bouquet and her dainty lace handker- 
 chief. 
 
 “ What does it all mean ? ” said the Duke, 
 aghast. 
 
 “ It means that the Duchess changed her dress 
 before she left, or was taken away,” said Lynd- 
 hurst, gravely; “and that she must have had 
 some note or message to cause her to make an ex- 
 cuse to get rid of her maid while she changed her 
 things.” 
 
 “ What fiend has taken her from me ? ” said the 
 Duke. 
 
 “That we will never rest until we find out, so 
 help us Heaven,” replied Lyndhurst, solemnly. 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 By Mrs. Laugliton. 
 
 THE OPEN PANEL. 
 
 “ If she be not honest, chaste and true, 
 
 There’s no man happy . . . 
 
 If you think other, 
 
 Remove your thought.”— Othello. 
 
 For a few minutes after Lyndhurst’s heartfelt 
 words, the three friends stood in silence. 
 
 Then Derrick Tredegar spoke. 
 
 “ Would it not he as well/’ he said, hesitatingly, 
 “ to let the authorities know of our discovery here ? 55 
 And he looked from the costly dress, all soiled with 
 dust, to the dark opening in the wall, where the 
 Mowbray diamonds flashed and sparkled, while the 
 faint fragrance of seringa from the bridal bouquet 
 seemed to whisper of the fair woman whose loss had 
 left so cruel a blank. 
 
 A flush rose to the Duke’s pale forehead. 
 
 “ No, a thousand times no ! ” he cried, hastily. 
 “ I cannot bear the thought of those coarse men 
 tracking the footsteps of my poor darling, and 
 searching her life for some hideous secret.” 
 
 With a broken exclamation of pain, he turned 
 away, and folding his arms on the mantelpiece, 
 bowed his head upon them. 
 
 Tredegar looked aghast at the effect of his sim- 
 ple words; but Clive Lyndhurst, laying his hand 
 on his friend’s shoulder, with almost feminine 
 gentleness, said : 
 
 You forget, my dear Mowbray, that your wife 
 cannot have left you of her own free will. She has 
 
22 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 either been taken by force, or, what is more likely, 
 is the dupe of some rascally plot. I agree with 
 Tredegar that we ought to help the detectives by 
 every means in our power.” 
 
 With an effort at self-control the Duke stood 
 erect. Then, with the readiness to acknowledge him- 
 self in fault which had won him so many friends, he 
 grasped Lyndhurst’s hand, saying quickly : 
 
 “ You are right, quite right. Forgive my hasty 
 words; I hardly know what I am saying. Will 
 you go to Scotland Yard for me ? ” 
 
 “ Most certainly,” replied Lyndhurst, heartily 
 returning the pressure of his friend’s hand. “ But 
 where is Allonby ? ” 
 
 The Duke sank into an armchair, and passed his 
 hand vaguely across his forehead. 
 
 “I really do not know,” he answered, slowly. 
 “ He did tell me where he was going, but I have 
 quite forgotten. It is awfully stupid of me.” 
 
 “ Never mind, my dear fellow, don’t trouble 
 yourself about it,” said Lyndhurst hurriedly, really 
 alarmed at the expression on the young man’s face. 
 “ I can, of course, manage alone if I have your 
 authority. Tredegar shall stay with you while I 
 am gone.” 
 
 He turned towards the door, but at that mo. 
 ment an old butler appeared on the threshold, and 
 announced : 
 
 “ A young man from Scotland Yard wishes to 
 see your Grace.” 
 
 Clive Lyndhurst with difficulty restrained a 
 smile. The old man’s disgust, that anyone from 
 Scotland Yard should presume to enter the house, 
 was written on his face. 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 23 
 
 The Duke sighed wearily, but at once replied, 
 “ Show him in here, Morrison. ” 
 
 Then turning to Lyndhurst, he added, “This 
 saves your journey.” 
 
 “ Would you not prefer us to leave you alone 
 with this man ? 55 asked Tredegar. 
 
 “ Certainly not,” exclaimed Mowbray, almost 
 impatiently; “he can say nothing which will not 
 be as safe in your keeping as in my own.” 
 
 They waited in silence for a few moments. Then 
 the door opened again, and Morrison announced, 
 “ Mr. Bolton, from Scotland Yard.” 
 
 A young man, rather under the average height, 
 quietly entered the room. He was very slight, of 
 pale complexion, with small, regular features, dark 
 brown hair, and gray eyes with unusually large 
 pupils — eyes which, as if conscious that they were 
 remarkable, he kept hidden as much as possible. 
 
 As the door closed behind him, he bowed — not 
 without a certain refinement of manner — and said, 
 in a clear, though low-toned voice, “ Good evening, 
 gentlemen.” 
 
 As he bent his head, the gray eyes seemed to 
 take in the whole room in one rapid glance, and 
 Lyndhurst, who was observing the man very 
 keenly, catching the look, began to hope that the 
 -case had been entrusted to capable hands. 
 
 “ This gentleman was about to give information 
 at Scotland Yard of the discovery we have just 
 made,” said the Duke, motioning with his hand, 
 first towards Lyndhurst and then towards the open 
 panel. His gesture and voice both betrayed extreme 
 lassitude, and it was evident that the emotions of 
 the day were telling acutely on his bodily strength. 
 
24 A “ NOVEL 55 NOVEL. 
 
 ■ 
 
 “ I am giad to have come at so opportune a f 
 moment, 55 replied the young man gravely, “f. 
 should not, however, have intruded on your Grac6 
 had not my instructions been wanting in a very 
 important point, viz., the dress in which the 
 Duchess of Mowbray left the house. I have only 
 just come to town in response to a telegram from 
 my chief, and therefore did not myself see Lord 
 Allonby ; but he is reported to have said that her 
 Grace was wearing her bridal dress. This seemed 
 to me improbable, and,” with a glance towards the 
 bed, “ I perceive my conjecture was correct/ 5 
 
 “ Lord Allonby reported what we then believed 
 to be true/” said the Duke. 
 
 “That I quite understand, your Grace, 55 an- 
 swered the detective, “but reports made in the 
 first moments of bewilderment are only too apt to 
 be incorrect. For instance, it is noted here, 55 and 
 he referred to his pocket-book, “ that her Grace 
 look no jewelry with her except a bracelet, of which 
 the description follows ; and yet, until a few min- 
 utes ago, for all anyone could say to the contrarj^, 
 she had carried away a fortune in diamonds. In 
 fact, one might have easily been led to conjecture 
 that those priceless gems had tempted some ruffian 
 to robbery and — — 55 he stopped short abruptly, 
 for the Duke buried his face in his hands with a 
 stifled groan. The picture conjured up by those 
 quiet words was more than he could bear unmoved. 
 
 The detective flushed with vexation at having! 
 allowed his professional instincts to hurry him into 
 forgetting that he was speaking to one who could ? 
 scarcely view matters in the same equable light. 
 He waited a few seconds for the Duke to recover 
 
A “NOVEL.” NOVEL. 25 
 
 1 
 
 himself, and then asked permission to question her 
 (rrace’s maid. The hell was rung- and the order 
 given for her to be sent for. 
 
 Whilst they waited. Derrick Tredegar crossed 
 the room, and, throwing open the long French win- 
 dows, stepped out on to the iron staircase which 
 led to the garden. Lyndhurst followed him, but, 
 anxious not to lose sight of the detective, remained 
 within the room. 
 
 Mr. Bolton was quite aware of the young man’s 
 scrutiny, and determined to evade it if possible. 
 With one quick glance at the Duke, who lay back 
 in his chair deadly pale and too utterly worn out to 
 notice anything, the detective stepped quietly to 
 the open panel, and, bending down, raised the fa- 
 mous Mowbray diamonds from the ground. For a 
 moment Jie stood with the glittering gems in his 
 hand, as if his only object was to admire their won- 
 drous luster, though the glance he had cast into 
 the recess as he took them out had shown him 
 something of much greater interest to him. 
 
 Placing the diamonds on the bed, he again 
 stooped down, and while one hand drew forth 
 •Seringa’s lace handkerchief, the other closed eagerly 
 on three small scraps of paper. As he carried the 
 handkerchief to the bed, a fourth piece fluttered to 
 the ground. Convinced that Lyndhurst must have 
 noticed it, he picked it up without any pretense of 
 concealment, and turning again to the panel, 
 brought out the bridal bouquet, but with nothing 
 else to reward his further search. 
 
 Crossing to the window, he gazed out into the 
 night, as though endeavoring to pierce the dark 
 .shadows of the ivy-covered staircase. 
 
26 
 
 A “NOVEL” NOVEL. 
 
 •' 
 
 “ The light is too deceptive to permit of any ex- 
 amination out of doors,” said Lyndhurst, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Bolton bowed in silence, and at that moment 
 Ellis, the Duchess’s maid, entered the room. In a 
 few words he told her what they wanted ; and as 
 she searched the wardrobe his skillful suggestions 
 elicited the facts that a blue serge dress and toque, 
 a dark gray dust cloak, a small black bag, and a 
 cash-box were missing. 
 
 “ Thank you,” he said, “ I need not detain you 
 longer,” and as she left the room he turned to the 
 Duke with the words : 
 
 “ I must now ask your Grace a few questions, 
 but will be as brief as possible.” 
 
 “ Certainly,” replied Mowbray, evidently trying 
 to rouse himself from the apathy into which he had 
 
 fallen. 
 
 The detective crossed the room and seated him- 
 self at a small table. On a page of his note-book he 
 spread out the scraps of paper, closely scrutinizing 
 them even while speaking. 
 
 “ Will your Grace tell me how the Duchess came 
 to know the secret of this panel ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ My sister must have told her,” answered the 
 Duke. “ There is no mystery about it ; it is merely 
 a cupboard for valuable books. This room was an 
 addition to the library until my wife came to stay 
 here, when it was given her as a bedroom, so 
 that she might more readily gain access to the 
 garden; for she has been always accustomed to 
 rise early.” 
 
 “ There was a few moments’ silence, during 
 which Lyndhurst watched the thin, nervous finger;? 
 
A “ novel ’ 7 novel. 
 
 27 
 
 sts they pushed the pieces of paper now to one side, 
 now to the other, on the open note-book ; then the 
 gray eyes were slowly raised, till they rested 
 steadily on the Duke’s pale face. 
 
 “ I ask your Grace’s pardon if my next questions 
 seem impertinent,” he said, “ but a detective, like 
 i doctor, must know everything* if he is to cure.” 
 
 The words seemed to recall the Duke to himself. 
 
 “ I beg you will speak plainly, and to the point, 
 Mr. Bolton,” he replied, with quiet dignity. 
 
 The detective rose from his chair. “ If I am 
 svrong in any of the facts I am about to state, will 
 pour Grace kindly correct me ? ” he commenced, 
 ind then continued quickly : “ I am told that 
 
 tiiough there was no reason to doubt the fact of 
 tiie late Mr. Arkell’s death, his body was never 
 bund.” 
 
 The Duke bowed assentingly. 
 
 “ That on this account his widow has lived in 
 seclusion for these eight years, and that the only 
 )ffer of marriage which she has entertained during 
 3 hat time was your Grace’s.” Again the Duke 
 nade a sign of assent. “ But the Duchess is 
 poung, and possesses exceptional personal attrac- 
 tions — has she during all those years really had no 
 lover ? ” 
 
 The Duke sprang to his feet, an angry flush on 
 lis pale face. 
 
 “ Is it possible ? ” continued Bolton, in his quiet 
 raice, “that she has U secret sufficiently weighty 
 30 cause her flight on receiving a threat to reveal it 
 30 you ? Is it possible that a man does exist who 
 las a prior claim to the hand she bestowed on you 
 |his morning ? ” 
 
28 A “novel” novel. 
 
 The Duke laughed bitterly. f 
 
 “ In other words,” he exclaimed hoarsely, “ dp J 
 believe that my wife of an hour fled from me with 
 her lover ? ” Then turning to his friends, his bAn.f 
 eyes blazing with fever, he cried out : “ Was I not 
 right in saying that these men were not fit to 
 search her pure life ? Do you hear ? ITe wishes 
 to take from me the only tie which holds me to life 
 — the thought of her love ! Oh, God ! what have 
 I done that I should suffer thus ? ” 
 
 A ghastly pallor spread over his face, and before 
 either of his friends could reach him he fell heavily 
 to the ground. 
 
 Tredegar rushed into the room and knelt beside 
 him, bidding the detective, in no measured words, 
 to go now ; he had done all the harm he could. But, 
 Lyndhurst grasped the young man’s arm as he 
 turned away. ' 
 
 “ For pity’s sake,” he whispered hurriedly,. 
 “ tell me what was written on those pieces of paper 
 you found within the panel.” 
 
 “ I cannot, sir,” replied Bolton firmly. “You 
 must leave the secret of that torn note to my dis- 
 cretion; and remember that a hasty word may 
 upset my plans.” 
 
 Then, with one pitying backward glance at the; 
 prostrate figure over which Tredegar was leaning,; 
 the detective left the room. 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 By Mrs. Sparshott. 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 “ Who knows P Not I ; I can hardly vouch 
 For the truth of what little I see.” 
 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon. 
 
 The day after the wedding- arrived. Bolton, the 
 detective, had flashed his information throughout 
 the country, had snatched a short rest, and was at 
 Lord Allonby’s house again as soon as it was suffi- 
 ciently light for his purpose, which was to thoroughly 
 examine the grounds, commencing where he had left 
 off the night before — at the iron staircase. With 
 keen, restless eyes, he went slowly along every walk, 
 eagerly scanning every flower bed, every patch of 
 grass. His smothered exclamation of disgust as 
 he completed his scrutiny, betrayed the detective’s 
 disappointment. 
 
 He had expected to find something here. Those 
 scraps of paper discovered last night were but frag- 
 ments of a fragment, and he had hoped that, seeing 
 the Duchess’s careless disposal of them, the re- 
 mainder might possibly be scattered in the hurry of 
 her flight through the grounds. 
 
 Flight, Bolton had, after reflection, decided it 
 was ; but for the direction and cause, he had yet to 
 search. If he could but find those missing pieces, 
 they would afford a more tangible clew. “ Had the 
 Duchess purposely left so much, and destroyed the 
 remainder?” he pondered. “No; that does not 
 tally with the great affection she was known to 
 have for her husband. She would not have added, 
 to the cruel blow of her disappearance, the tortures 
 
30 
 
 A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 < < 
 
 5 ? 
 
 of doubt which these fragments would have causec 
 him had he seen them. In her nervous haste sh< 
 must have accidentally dropped them.” 
 
 He stood thus thinking, close by a bank o 
 fernery that screened the door through which th< 
 Duchess must have passed, beautiful, luxurianl 
 ferns, flanked by drooping dwarf firs. As the wine 
 s^vayed the branches, his quick eye caught sight o 
 something which caused him instantly to part th< 
 boughs, and there, tightly rolled up, save the on< 
 straggling tape which had caught his eye, lay £ 
 gray cloak. He quickly unrolled it, and felt in th< 
 pockets, but they were empty. Then as quickly 
 rolling it up again, he replaced it as exactly as h( 
 found it. 
 
 “ She won’t be found in a gray cloak, then,” hi 
 muttered. “ I should say she wore it thus fai 
 in case any one should see her, stripped it off here, 
 and hid it, donning another — for I’ll warrant she 
 never left with nothing over her dress. She musl 
 have had some assistance from within or without : 
 however. I’ll soon know.” After glancing care' 
 fully round, he went to the door and opened it, and 
 taking from his pocket a white crayon, he stooped 
 and made a small mark on the step, closed t hi 
 door again, and waited. In about ten minutes i 
 low, peculiar cough was heard on the other side oi 
 the wall, and a moment later a slight, wiry-look- 
 ing man stood with the detective in the garden. 
 
 “ Under this fir-tree is a cloak,” said the latter; 
 “ you must hide in that clump of bushes and 
 watch.” 
 
 The other quickly followed his instructions, and 
 Bolton, having waited to see if the man had hid- 
 
 J 
 
A “ NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 31 
 
 1 den himself completely, left the spot, emerging* in 
 3 sight of the house from a different point to that 
 where his confederate lay concealed. It was still 
 early, and there being no sign of life about, he 
 quitted the place.’ ’ 
 
 An hour or two later Bolton returned to head- 
 quarters to see if any reports had come to hand, 
 and he found a note from Lady Allonby requesting 
 his presence. 
 
 Arriving at the house, he was at once shown 
 into an apartment, where he was soon joined by 
 Lyndhurst, who informed him that the Duke lay 
 in bed delirious with fever. Lad} 7 Allonby then 
 entered. 
 
 “We have sent for you/’ said her ladyship, 
 “as we have this morning received a letter from 
 the Duchess. I fear it will not be of much assist- 
 ance to you, but we thought it best to inform you a 
 See, it is here.” 
 
 Bolton took the letter with a bow, and read it 
 slowly and silently. It ran thus : 
 
 i 
 
 “ My dear Husband : — Forgive me, my dar- 
 ling, for what I have done. God knows it is as 
 hard for me as you. The cup of happiness has been 
 dashed from my lips as from yours, and by a fate 
 as unforeseen on my part as on yours ; but that 
 fate is relentless. I can never see you, my love, 
 again. Do not seek me, for finding me will be 
 harder to bear for both. — Your loving Wife.” 
 
 Bolton looked at the postmark on the envelope, 
 “Charing Cross,” then quietly laid the letter on 
 the table, and waited for the others to speak. Her 
 ladyship at length broke the silence. 
 
 “ It is very strange and terrible. What fearful 
 
 I 
 
 
32 A “novel” novel. 
 
 secret it is that has caused her to act thus, I am 
 totally at a loss to understand. It cannot he that 
 her former husband has appeared again, for you see 
 she signs herself his wife, as if to dispel any doubt 
 on that point.” 
 
 “ And her letter does not support the other pos- 
 sibility that has been suggested,” added Lyndhurst, 
 looking the detective steadily in the face. 
 
 “ We must find her,” said the latter, “ then we 
 may attain the solution of the difficult}' more eas- 
 ily. At present,” turning to her ladyship, “ we 
 have not advanced one step ; the postmark of this 
 letter is no guide, and the purport of its contents 
 leaves the cause of her flight more mysterio s than 
 ever. Will your ladyship kindly give me the ad- 
 dress of the apartments lately occupied by the 
 Duchess ? ” he asked. Having obtained it, he took 
 his leave, and proceeded to the address given. 
 
 Arrived there, he asked to see the landlady, and 
 having stated his business to her, and his wish to 
 see the Duchess’s rooms, she herself showed him 
 through them, first the elegant little drawing-room, 
 then the whole suite ; some of the rooms being still 
 in disorder from the operations of packing. In an-: 
 swer to his numerous inquiries as to the habits and' 
 few visitors of the Duchess, he could obtain no in- 
 formation of importance. As an afterthought he 
 asked to see ■ the maid’s room, which was in still 
 greater disorder, and the floor was strewn with 
 papers and periodicals. As he turned these over 
 with the end of his cane, he saw part of an enve- 
 lope with the address of the house he was in writ- 
 ten on it. He picked it up, and noting the style of 
 the wmiting, a gleam of satisfaction momentarily 
 
A “novel” novel. 33 
 
 flitted across his face, though he saw the upper 
 part, bearing the name and stamp, was missing. 
 
 “ This might be a little assistance,” he said to 
 his guide, “if I could find the other part,” and so 
 saying, he proceeded to search for it, carefully pick- 
 ing up every paper and shaking every pamphlet, so 
 fcnat loose papers might fall out ; but, after a long 
 task, his efforts were fruitless. 
 
 “ Can I see the servant whose duty it is to bring 
 in the letters ? ” Bolton asked. 
 
 “ Certainly, but we will return to the drawing- 
 room,” was the reply. 
 
 In a few moments the girl appeared, but in an- 
 swer to the question as to whom letters in that 
 handwriting were addressed, the girl said she could 
 not remember having seen any like it, and, in an- 
 swer to further inquiry, that although she was sup- 
 posed to look after the letters. Lady Seringa’s maid 
 sometimes took them from the box herself. Noth- 
 ing more could be ascertained, so the detective once 
 more returned to Scotland Yard, where, seated at 
 a desk in a quiet office, he brought out his note- 
 book, and laid before him the scraps of paper and the 
 torn envelope he had found in the maid’s chamber. 
 Yes, it was as he had thought : a careful compari- 
 son of the writing on both convinced him they had 
 been written by the same person, and that person a 
 man. As he was examining them more closely under 
 the lamp, he was interrupted by the entrance of the 
 man he had left to watch the cloak in the morning. 
 ' “ Well ? ” said Bolton. 
 
 “ It’s gone ! ” was the laconic answer. 
 
 “ Ah ! ” ejaculated the other, with eager satis- 
 faction. 
 
 I 
 
34 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 “I got mighty tired of sticking behind thos> 
 bushes, I can tell you; but at last, as soon as i 
 grew dusk, a girl sneaked down the path close t< 
 the wall, picked up the cloak and carried it toward: 
 the house. I followed as closely as I dared, am 
 saw her mount the steps to a balcony and disappea: 
 through a window.” 
 
 “ How was she dressed, like a servant ? ” 
 
 “ No, all in black, or a dark dress, at any rate 
 and she wore no cap or apron.” 
 
 “ Could you see what she was like ? ” 
 
 “ I couldn’t see her face, but she was of median 
 height and a good figure.” 
 
 “ All right, that will do,” said Bolton, as he dis 
 missed the man. 
 
 He glanced over the reports he had just noted 
 down. “ So the Duchess’s assistance came from 
 within, in the person of her maid, evidently, and flu 
 cause from without,” he mused. “ There seems tc 
 have been more foresight than the letter I saw this 
 morning would make believe, for here is direct evi- 
 dence of a concerted plan between the mistress and 
 her maid.” 
 
 He turned to the fragments of paper again and 
 read to himself — 
 
 ; 
 
 meet me 
 remember 
 
 The words evidently formed the commencement 
 of two lines, as after the word “ me ” there was an 
 up-stroke indicating the beginning of another word. 
 
 I 
 
A “NOVEL” NOVEL. 35 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 By Miss Ernestine Tate. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 “No light, but rather darkness visible.” —M ilton. 
 
 There remained nothing* for Bolton to do but to 
 follow up the idea that- had suggested itself to him 
 during the day 9 s weary search, that the Duchess 
 had had meetings from within the house. 
 
 It was necessary for him to repair again to the 
 Duke of Mowbray’s, and not to lose time was of the 
 greatest importance, as the object of their search 
 was shown by the letter read that morning to lx* 
 near at hand. He accordingly dispatched a note 1 o 
 Lady Allonby, to ascertain at what hour he couiu 
 interview the maid without her having the slightest 
 hint of his intentions. 
 
 He compared again and again the handwriting 
 on the envelope found in the maid’s room in the 
 suite of apartments he had so recently visited, and 
 still could only come to the one conclusion that they 
 looked as if written by the same hand, and judging 
 by appearances, most likely a man’s. But whose ? 
 that was the question. 
 
 In the oak-paneled cupboard he had found three 
 or four pieces of paper ; he had matched two, mak- 
 ing the words, as we know : “ meet me re- 
 
 member.” 
 
 But on examining the other two, he could just 
 trace the end of a word “ ath with the letter “ o ” 
 the word “oath” would be complete. Had the 
 fragment not been missing it would probably read 
 “ remember your oath.” “Was the Duchess,” he 
 
36 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 pondered, “ the victim of some dire fatality, and 
 had she, in a weak, unguarded moment (not know- 
 ing the nature of the sacrifice demanded), given her 
 word to go, whenever called, to the person who 
 wrote that paper ? It is a well-known fact that 
 people have acted from a mistaken notion of duty 
 in such a Quixotic manner ; then why not she ? ” ' 
 
 He read again the copy of the Duchess’s letter 
 to the Duke, and it seemed to bear him out in this 
 new idea. To search then for the man who could 
 have such a hold over her was the next thing to be 
 done ; and the first step towards that was to inter- 
 rogate the maid as to the life the Duchess had led 
 during her eight years’ comparative retirement 
 from the world. 
 
 To learn as much as was possible of the family 
 of the missing wife, also something of the husband, 
 whom everyone seemed to be quite sure was dead. i 
 But was he ? 
 
 “Was it father or husband that had brought 
 this misery on an innocent woman — and had no 
 sword of Damocles hung over her head during those 
 eight years ? Was she or was she not blameless in 
 joining her fate to that of the Duke of Mowbray at 
 the altar ? ” These thoughts followed one another 
 in rapid succession through the active brain of the 
 detective. 
 
 He was interested in the case, and his profes- 
 sional prestige as well as duty compelled him to the 
 utmost to search for any clew, however slight, that 
 would be likely to elucidate the mystery. ■> 
 
 A note was here handed to him. “ That’s well; 
 the sooner the better. Say I will be there by ten 
 o’clock punctually, and send Dawson to me.” 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 37 
 
 The man who was with him in the morning*, and 
 saw the disappearance of the gray cloak, came in. 
 
 “ I am going to the Duke’s house ; you are to 
 come with me, and tell Lane to follow at once. 
 You are to loiter about near the servants’ entrance. 
 If any man comes out, Lane is to follow him and 
 learn his business ; if any woman, you are to fol- 
 low her yourself and report to me at headquarters, 
 at whatever hour it may be, the results.” 
 
 “ It shall be done, ” said the man, and with- 
 drew. 
 
 “ Mr. Bolton, my lady,” said Morrison, the but- 
 ler, as he held back the heavy curtains for the de- 
 tective to enter. 
 
 “ Very well, Morrison ; stay — send Lady 
 Seringa’s own maid to me at once, and I par- 
 ticularly request you do not tell her any one is 
 here.” 
 
 When the maid entered the room Lady Allonby 
 said : 
 
 “ Maillard, I want you to help us all you can by 
 telling this gentleman anything you know of your 
 mistress’s movements lately, and by answering any 
 questions he may think fit to ask you.” 
 
 “ Yes, my lady.” 
 
 “ How long have you lived with the Duchess ? 99 
 asked Bolton. 
 
 “ Since her marriage.” 
 
 “ How long did she live with Mr. Arkell ? ” 
 
 “ Only a few months.” 
 
 “ Was he kind to her ? ” 
 
 “ No ! he ill-used her shamefully, and one day 
 after a heavy loss at Derby races they had a fear- 
 
38 
 
 A 
 
 “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 ful scene. He left her, and to my knowledge has 
 never seen her since.” 
 
 “ You are quite sure ? ” 
 
 “ Quite, sir.” 
 
 “ Would you know him again, even if dis- 
 guised ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; I think I should.” 
 
 “How?” 
 
 “ He had, except in moments of passion, an un- 
 usually sweet voice for a man, and he had a mole 
 over the left eyebrow.” 
 
 “Thank you,” said Bolton. “You have an- 
 swered those questions very nicely ; hut I want you 
 to answer me one or two more. I won’t keep you 
 long.” 
 
 While searching about in his pocket-book, ap- 
 parently for some papers, he asked, quite care- 
 lessly : 
 
 “ When did Lady Seringa see Lord de Yere 
 last ? ” 
 
 A momentary glance gave him the satisfaction 
 of seeing the girl’s lips involuntarily twitch, and 
 that as she answered with a slight effort of uncon- 
 cern, she went a shade paler. 
 
 “I don’t know any one of that name, sir, 
 amongst my lady’s visitors.” 
 
 “What, not know, my girl, that your mistress 
 had a visitor of that name, and that he was her 
 father ? ” 
 
 “ No, sir ! I did not know all my lady’s busi- 
 ness.” 
 
 “You know she has a father ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, I — I believe she has,” she stammered. 
 
 “ Do you know why he lives abroad instead of 
 
A “ novel” novel. 39 
 
 in England, and how it came about that he was not 
 at his daughter’s wedding ? ” 
 
 “ No, I do not,” said the girl, impatiently, as 
 she flashed an indignant glance at him. 
 
 “ Now, don’t get cross ; I only want to help 
 your mistress, and not annoy her. Tell me, did any 
 one give you a letter to give to her on her wedding 
 morning? ” 
 
 “No, no; nobody did,” said the girl, reluct- 
 antly ; “ and I can’t tell you any more if you ques- 
 tion me all night. I only wish I could find her.” 
 
 “ Tell me, did she always live very quietly ? ” 
 “Yes, sir; she had scarcely any visitors in the 
 country. She lived sometimes in London part of 
 the year, sometimes she went abroad.” 
 
 “Did she always take you with her ? ” 
 
 “ Nearly always, sir.” 
 
 “ Tliank you, that will do ; as you can’t tell me 
 any more you may go, as I am going to talk to 
 Lady Allonby. Before you go tell me, do you know 
 that hand- writing ? ” showing her the torn enve- 
 lope. The girl shook her head, but made no reply, 
 and hurriedly left the room, as if afraid of being 
 asked more. 
 
 “Ah!” he said to himself, “she knows more 
 than she will tell, and like the description of the 
 woman that took the cloak, too.” 
 
 “ Lady Allonby, the library is, I believe, the end 
 wing of the north side of the house, is it not ? ” 
 “Yes,” said Lady Allonby, “the window and 
 door of the room used by the Duchess looked on, as 
 you know, to the garden, and the library windows 
 are at right angles to it.” 
 
 “ Is there a veranda round that side of the 
 
40 
 
 A “NOVEL” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 house, and could anyone get in through one of the 
 windows without being seen from the other side of 
 the house ? ” 
 
 “Yes, I think so; but come and see. We can go 
 up the other staircase ; we shall not meet anyone.” 
 
 They examined the library thoroughly, and Bol- 
 ton made in his note-book a rough sketch of that 
 wing of the house. 
 
 All that night he waited up for Dawson. 
 Towards early morning he threw himself down on 
 a bench to snatch an hour or two’s sleep. 
 
 About twenty minutes past seven he was 
 aroused by Dawson, who, nearly breathless, told 
 him that he had discovered Lady Seringa’s where- 
 abouts by tracking the maid . 
 
 “We have not a moment to lose, sir ; she leaves 
 London, Charing Cross, by tlie Continental train; 
 leaves at 8:40. I have a cab waiting.” 
 
 Bolton got his hat, and dashed madly into the 
 cab. “ Drive like the devil, and I’ll make it worth 
 your while, cabby. 8:40, Charing Cross.” 
 
 “ All right, sir.” 
 
 They arrived at the station. Bolton, followed 
 by Dawson, rushed through the barrier, and just 
 saw the train moving. 
 
 Bolton saw the maid looking out of the carriage 
 window ; Lady Seringa leaning back very pale and 
 inanimate ; and — was he in his senses ? — a tall, 
 elderly man talking to the maid. 
 
 “ Stop the train,” shouted the detective, “ in the 
 Queen’s name.” 
 
 “ Too late ! ” shouted the guard, as they steamed 
 out of the station, leaving Bolton and Dawson pant- 
 ing for breath. 
 
A “NOVEL” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 41 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 By Mrs . G . B . Bur gin. 
 
 The Duchess of Mowbray leaned back with 
 closed eyes. She did not speak a word to the tall, 
 aristocratic man opposite. That mysterious being*, 
 after giving some directions to the maid, relapsed 
 into silence until they reached Dover. At Do- 
 ver he again spoke to the maid, bidding her re- 
 place the Duchess’s veil. Once on board the boat, 
 the Duchess retired to her cabin, remaining there 
 until the vessel reached Calais. 
 
 When she did appear on deck, she was even 
 more feeble and languid than before. The tall man 
 came forward, but she rejected his proffered arm 
 with a shudder, and moved slowly to the train in 
 waiting. She seemed to be in a dream, as one who 
 is stupefied by some great shock. 
 
 “ Peste /” muttered the aristocratic stranger,, 
 “ Am I to have all my trouble for nothing ? It 
 would hardly do for her to die on my hands.” 
 
 He carefully placed the Duchess in the carriage, 
 and strolled off to a smoking compartment, scarcely 
 noticing a slim, clerical-looking man, wearing green 
 goggles, who entered the same carriage as that oc- 
 cupied by the Duchess. 
 
 Bolton had for a moment almost lost his pres- 
 ence of mind at Charing Cross. The prize was so 
 nearly in his hands, and at the moment of victory 
 he had arrived too late. Then he began to think 
 that his attempt to stop the train had escaped no- 
 tice by the people whom it principally concerned » 
 Was it yet too late to follow the Duchess ? His 
 
42 A “novel” novel. 
 
 professional pride came to his aid. Was he, Bol- 
 ton, the one man of Scotland Yard whose career 
 had never been marred by a failure, to be duped 
 and outwitted by that blase , elderly aristocrat, Lord 
 de Vere ? Never ! He would rather throw up his 
 calling' and retire into obscurity. The casual 
 glimpse of the elderly stranger convinced him that 
 he could be none other than the Duchess’s father. 
 He would follow them to the bitter end, and un- 
 ravel this mystery which was killing the Duke of 
 Mowbray. The Duchess remained passive in the 
 hands of her father, but the lassitude of her atti- 
 tude as the train steamed swiftly out of the station 
 convinced Bolton that she was suffering from some 
 great grief. The maid was obviously acting in con- 
 cert with Lord de Yere ; no help could be expected 
 from her. 
 
 Hastily drawing the Charing Cross station- 
 master aside, Bolton rapidly stated his calling, and 
 that it was utterly imperative he should catch the 
 Dover train. The station-master was a man of 
 action. 
 
 “ I can have an engine ready for you in three 
 minutes,” he said. “You will easily catch the 
 boat, if you can stand the engine. Sea-sickness is 
 nothing to it.” 
 
 “ The engine ! ” said the usually calm detective ; 
 “ I have been on worse places than an engine.” 
 
 He hurriedly seized a satchel from his assistant, 
 and with quick fingers had completed his make-up 
 ere the engine came sliding out of the siding. A 
 few deft lines round the mouth, giving it the ap- 
 pearance of patient suffering, made him seem twenty 
 years older. A wig of smooth, straight hair and 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 43 
 
 a pair of blue spectacles completed the disguise. 
 'The subordinate’s soft hat, on top of the wig, looked 
 as if it had never known another head. Bolton ap- 
 peared to be an overworked curate, about to start 
 for his summer holidays. 
 
 At first the engine moved slowly and pleasantly 
 enough. Bolton wondered that there should be 
 anything unpleasant about it. Then the engineer 
 opened the throttle, and with a bound, as of a high- 
 mettled racer speeding for life or death, the engine 
 shot forward along the level track. There was 
 nothing to steady it behind but the tender. It was 
 fortunate for Bolton that he had made all his 
 preparations, for both his hands were required to 
 hold on as the engine plunged and bounded along 
 at full speed. 
 
 “ I can’t get another ounce out of her without 
 leaving the track,” said the driver, as they flew on- 
 ward. He moved about in the cab, polishing up the 
 brasswork, and humming a tune with what ap- 
 peared to Bolton a supreme contempt for his own 
 and other people’s lives. 
 
 “ Isn’t it rather risky work ? ” said Bolton, 
 presently at the top of his voice, the engine having 
 very nearly left the line. 
 
 The driver poked the fire and laughed. He re- 
 minded Bolton of Mephistopheles. “ If you don’t 
 like it, you can get off,” said the driver ; “I stay 
 where I am.” 
 
 “ I’ll stay where I am if lean,” said Bolton, and 
 he did. 
 
 The driver ran the engine on a siding at Dover, 
 and looked appreciatively at the sovereign which 
 Bolton slipped into his hand. 
 
44 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 “ It was worth that,” he said, reflectively. “I 
 thought we had jumped the track once, but my 
 orders were to get you to Dover dead or alive ; and 
 there’s the boat. Shall I wait for you ? ” 
 
 “No, thanks,” said Bolton, wishing that he had 
 given the driver two sovereigns instead of one. 
 “If I ever want you again, I’ll let you know.” 
 
 “He stood it pretty well,” said the driver to 
 himself. “ I never carried a detective before, and 
 I did make her wobble a little.” 
 
 Bolton stole on board the boat without exciting 
 observation. Lord de Yere strolled past him two 
 or three times, smoking a cigar. He glanced with 
 ill-concealed scorn at the miserable being huddled 
 up in a corner, little knowing of the terrible ride 
 which Bolton had endured. “ I rather think,” 
 said Bolton to himself, “ that it will be my turn to 
 be scornful later on. Your lordship’s undisguisedly 
 shady antecedents have not escaped my watchful 
 care. It was a bold thing of you to appear in En- 
 gland at all just now. There are one or two little 
 matters against you which have a somewhat ugly 
 look. However, those can wait.” 
 
 To the detective’s great relief. Lord de Vere, 
 after seeing his daughter comfortably ensconced in 
 a corner, went off to smoke, first whispering a few 
 words to the maid, who nodded her head in reply. 
 He did see Bolton getting into the carriage, but 
 looked upon him as a harmless clerical lunatic at 
 large, bent upon the mild dissipation of fishing in 
 Normandy after a preliminary flutter in Paris. 
 
 Bolton sat down by the side of the maid, who 
 curled herself up comfortably, and was soon ab- 
 sorbed in a red-backed novel, with Zola’s name 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 45 
 
 figuring conspicuously on the cover. This trait did 
 not escape the keen-eyed detective’s notice. “ She 
 is a fast little hussy, and has been bribed by Lord 
 de Vere,” he said. “So much the worse for her. 
 A headache is no more than she deserves. I won- 
 der if we shall come to a tunnel soon.” 
 
 Had the unfortunate maid known what was com- 
 ing, she would probably not have found “La 
 Terre ” so interesting. The innocent-looking curate 
 was fumbling about with his handkerchief, and 
 reached across.as if to open the Avindow. Then a 
 strong hand seized her, a handkerchief was thrust 
 against her somewhat pretty little nose, and she 
 was chloroformed before she could realize what had 
 -happened. 
 
 Bolton leisurely placed the girl at full length on 
 the seat of the carriage., and waited until the train 
 emerged from the tunnel before speaking to the 
 Duchess. He pitched the novel out of the window. 
 
 “ Pardon me, your Grace,” he said deferentially, 
 as the train emerged from the tunnel, “but we 
 shall be in Paris in half an hour, and I have much 
 to say to you. I am a detective from Scotland 
 Yard.” 
 
 The Duchess flung back her veil, Avith a quivering 
 gesture born of extreme surprise. “Too late, too 
 late ! ” she moaned. “ No one can help me now ! 99 
 
 “ Pardon me if I suggest that the time is ex- 
 tremely short,” said Bolton. “ I have chloroformed 
 your maid, and do not wish to have to renew the 
 operation.” 
 
 “ The Duke, what of him ? ” asked the Duchess, 
 her beautiful eyes filling with tears. “ He does not 
 believe- — he does not suspect ” 
 
46 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 “ His Grace believes nothing 1 , suspects nothing, 
 to your prejudice,” returned the detective earnestly. 
 “If he did so I should not be here.” 
 
 “ Is he well ? ” inquired the Duchess. “ How 
 does he bear my absence ? ” 
 
 Bolton endeavored to evade her inquiries, but 
 unsuccessfully. 
 
 “ I see that he is ill,” said the Duchess. “ Tell 
 me the worst at once. I can bear anything now.” 
 
 “ His health is not seriously affected,” said the 
 detective, thinking that, if she kne\y the truth, this 
 pale and beautiful woman would fade away beneath 
 the misfortunes which had overwhelmed her. “ The 
 Duke, however, has suffered greatly from your 
 mysterious disappearance, and the surest and most 
 effectual remedy he could receive would be your 
 return to him. Can you not confide in me ? This 
 mysterious secret which is crushing you must ulti- . 
 mately become known. The Duke will not rest 
 until he finds you again. What am I to say to 
 him ? ” 
 
 “ Say,” wailed the unhappy woman, wringing 
 her beautiful hands, “ say to him that he must pray 
 to God to help us both — that I am forbidden by 
 oath to reveal my secret. Give him this ring, and 
 tell him that I can never see him again. If he loves 
 me truly he must never wish to look upon my face. 
 Bid him forget the past as if it had never been. 
 Say to him that until death closes my unhappy 
 eyes, and I go down alone into its dark valley, my 
 secret can never be revealed. Then he shall know, 
 but not before. I dare not break my oath.” 
 
 She handed the detective the amethyst from her 
 finger, and wept passionately. 
 
1 
 
 A “novel” novel. 47 
 
 “ It is now almost too late to attempt to alter 
 your Grace’s decision,” said Bolton, sorrcr^fely. 
 “ All I can do is to obey your commands Jutis 
 girl will soon revive, and we are close to Faris. 
 Let me implore you to reconsider your decision.” 
 
 “ It is useless,” said the Duchess, firmly. “ The 
 sins of others have woven me in a net, from the 
 meshes of which there is no escaping. I thank 
 you for the courage and zeal you have displayed in 
 thus following me, but you run a very great risk 
 should ” 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 “ Lord de Vere find me in this carriage without 
 a disguise,” said Bolton. “However-, I am pre- 
 pared for that. At present nothing is left for me 
 but to return to England, and report what has 
 happened.” 
 
 “I cannot sufficiently thank you,” said the 
 Duchess. “ Can you persuade that wretched girl 
 she has had a fit, or something of that sort ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said the detective, busying himself 
 with the Duchess’s scent-bottle. 
 
 The girl gave a sigh and sat up, pressing her 
 hand to her head. 
 
 “ My poor child,” said a droning voice from the 
 corner, “ I fear you have been unwell, but by the 
 aid of Providence you are now restored. I will en- 
 deavor to seek a physician to minister unto you,” 
 and Bolton glided out of the carriage before Lord 
 de Y ere could reach it. 
 
 “It was better,” mused the detective, “to let 
 her think that I return to England ; but I will 
 rescue her, and unravel this mystery, or never take 
 up another case. How lovely she looked, her great 
 
48 A “'novel” novel. 
 
 violet eyes swimming in tears ! I had to open the 
 carriage windows, or that girl would have smelt 
 the chloroform. Artful little hussy ! I am sure 
 she is mixed up in the affair.” 
 
 He followed the party at a respectful distance, 
 then hailed a fiacre, and shadowed them to a quiet 
 little house in the suburbs. “ Good,” he said, rub- 
 bing his hands ; the Duchess is evidently too unwell 
 to travel for some days. Now for the Prefecture of 
 Police. I have them fast.” 
 
 But Bolton was too sanguine. When he re- 
 turned later in the day from the Prefecture of 
 Police it was only to be informed by the official 
 placed under his orders that the house was empty. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 By Miss Emma Wylie. 
 
 Bolton returned to the Prefecture of Police. 
 
 He emerged half an hour later, a sadder and a 
 wiser man. 
 
 Shady as the English record of Lord de Vere’s 
 antecedents might be, it was yet virtuous compared 
 with that the French Prefect showed him. 
 
 When Bolton, disgusted and angry that the 
 Duchess had been spirited away under the very 
 eyes of the watcher, and that the man had appar- 
 ently not the faintest knowledge of the direction 
 taken by the fugitives, complained to the Prefect, 
 that man of shrugs and eyebrows looked profoundly 
 indifferent, but when Bolton, irritated by his airs 
 and shrugs, said sharply : “ You have let one of 
 the greatest rascals living escape you,” he turned 
 a more attentive eye upon the English detective. 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 49 
 
 “ Vraiment ! And his name ? ” 
 
 “Lord de Vere; but I know he has several 
 other names, and as many disguises.” 
 
 The Frenchman started, flushed angrily : 
 
 “Lord de Yere ! Ce n’est pas possible ! II ne 
 saurait oser ! Monsieur, you have been deceived ; 
 Lord de Yere dare not appear in Paris ” 
 
 “ Dare or not, he has been hereyand apparently 
 has escaped.” 
 
 The Prefect glared angrily at Bolton: “Had 
 you been wise enough to tell me your case was of 
 some importance, instead of making it .appear an 
 ordinary trumpery case of surveillance, I would 
 have sent you another man. Your insular caution, 
 Monsieur, has deprived me of the pleasure of catch- 
 ing the greatest rogue in Europe ! Listen ! ” 
 
 Furiously turning over the pages of a great 
 book lying on the desk near him, the Prefect 
 rapidly read out two or three paragraphs, then, 
 turning over another : 
 
 “Attendez done! e’est ga, et ga ! ” Then as 
 furiously banging the book back into its place, he 
 rang the bell sharply. 
 
 A being who looked like an embodied interroga- 
 tion answered his summons. 
 
 In a low voice the Prefect conveyed his instruc- 
 tions to him, concluding with : “ Bring me the an- 
 swer here in ten minutes.” The silent one disap- 
 peared. 
 
 “ Monsieur,” said the Prefect as the door closed, 
 u } T ou were too reserved, too — pardon ! — self-confi- 
 dent. Now that I understand who the mauvais sujet 
 really is that you are in pursuit of, I think I can 
 help you. He is, I believe, likely to make Berlin 
 
50 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 his next resting- place. He is as well known and as 
 much required in Berlin as here, or as in St. Peters- 
 burg-. In a few moments I shall hear. In the 
 meantime, do you know Berlin at all ? ” 
 
 “I have been there once.” 
 
 “ Do you speak German ? ” 
 
 “Yes, fairly well.” 
 
 “ Understand it thoroughly ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I think I may say that.” 
 
 “ Do you know Herr Gustav Lendorf ? ” 
 
 “ No, hut I have heard of him as being- the 
 ‘ Genius of Private Inquiry.’ ” 
 
 The Prefect nodded. 
 
 “ I will give you a line to him— he is under some 
 little obligation to me — will do his best for you ; 
 but, Monsieur, no half tales and half confidences* 
 if you leave your colleague in the dark, do not 
 grumble that he loses his way.” 
 
 As the Prefect spoke, he tore out a page froni 
 his note-book, hastily wrote a few lines, and en- 
 closed them in an envelope, which he sealed with an 
 elaborate magnificence, and handed to the detective 
 as the door opened. The silent being advanced and 
 placed a paper on the desk before the Prefect, who* 
 rapidly glanced it over, waved the man out of the 
 room, and, turning to Bolton, said : 
 
 “ As I thought, en route for Berlin ; in fact, by 
 this time they are nearly there. Follow them. Do 
 not attempt to worst Lord de Vere as you would a 
 less accomplished rascal. Trust yourself less. Mon- 
 sieur, in this case. Go to Lendorf. He know r s the 
 gentleman, and can tell you his haunts. A fine fel- 
 low, Lendorf — adroit — a fine fellow, Lendorf. Adieu, 
 Monsieur, adieu, au re voir ! ’ ’ 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 51 
 
 In a very short time Bolton had almost over- 
 come his keen disappointment at the flight of the 
 Duchess, and was making fresh plans by which to 
 entrap her wretched, rascally father, and restore 
 her to freedom and love. 
 
 Mechanically he took his ticket at the bustling, 
 noisy station, mechanically he threw himself into a 
 dark corner of the railway carriage, still in the dis- 
 guise of the mild-looking curate, and in less time 
 than it takes to tell it the detective was fast asleep, 
 oblivious of time, of noise, of place; Spite of the 
 guttural complaints and inhuman shaking indulged 
 in by -the various officials who curse the weary trav- 
 eler’s rest on Continental lines, Bolton was only 
 fully aroused when the wretched slow train ejected 
 the passengers at Berlin. 
 
 Bolton rubbed his eyes. In a moment he de- 
 cided the first step to take was to seek Herr Len- 
 dorf. 
 
 He hailed a droschke : — “ Drive to 96, Leipziger 
 Strasse.” 
 
 And in a very short time he was driven there, 
 when one considers that no droschke horse in Berlin 
 has more than three legs, and two of those lame. 
 
 Bolton found on looking at the name-plate 
 that Herr Lendorf lived on the fourth story. He 
 toiled up, was shown into a dreary waiting-room 
 by an austere man who answered his ring, and in 
 some little time was conducted into the presence of 
 the great private detective himself. 
 
 Herr Gustav Lendorf was a massively-built 
 man, with a large bald head, overhanging brow, 
 and clear blue eyes, which expressed nothing but a 
 quiet friendliness as the Englishman scraped his 
 
52 A “novel” novel. 
 
 way through the laborious road laid down by Ger- 
 man officialdom to simple facts. 
 
 These elaborate formalities disposed of, Boltor 
 presented the letter given him by the French Prefect, 
 
 As Herr Lendorf’s eyes fell upon the hand- 
 writing, his expression changed to one of keen in- 
 terest. His indifferent “ So— gut— so,” ceased. Ht 
 read the letter, looked at Bolton attentively, and 
 said : 
 
 “ The man you are in search of is here— in Ber- 
 lin. I can help you. But no hurry; you must be 
 patient. The man is the very devil. How, first of 
 all, your disguise, Mr. Bolton, will not do ; it is too 
 striking.” 
 
 Bolton smiled, and explained. 
 
 “ Gut ! schon gut ! But you English are prac- 
 tical — too practical. Look not to this side nor to 
 that, but all around you, before you attempt to at- 
 tack this Baron de Vere. He has here also other 
 names, equally a disgrace and a scandal. You must 
 watch, and watch, and watch again. Where are 
 you staying ? ” 
 
 Bolton replied he had as yet been nowhere. 
 Where did he advise him to go? 
 
 Herr Lendorf wrote out an address : “49 Gross- 
 beeren Strasse. The widow of an old friend of mine 
 has a pension there. Go to her, mention my name; 
 —stay, can you act a little ? Of course you can— a 
 detective ! Come in here. Herr Gott ! What a 
 disguise ! ” Bolton followed Herr Lendorf, and in 
 ten minutes there issued from the inner room Herr 
 “ Julian Benton,” a typical American-German stu- 
 dent, with long hair, intense countenance, the indis- 
 pensible eye-glass, and astonishing hat. 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 53 
 
 “ Gut ! ” said Herr Lendorf, “ you will not be 
 so distinguished now in a Berlin crowd as an En- 
 glish * Geistliche.’ Go to your pension now. When 
 the police authorities come to know your business 
 in Berlin — as they will — give yourself out as a young 
 American reading medicine, attending lectures, and 
 so on. I will send you a line round if I discover 
 anything of our friend before this evening; then 
 you can begin your own game — but let it be a care- 
 ful one. Auf Wiedersehen ! ” 
 
 Herr Lendorf was immersed in his affairs before 
 Bolton reached the house door. 
 
 He drove straight to the Grossbeeren Strasse, 
 presented himself to Frau Meyer, and was at once 
 accepted as a boarder by that worthy dame, when 
 she heard that he was sent to her by Herr Lendorf. 
 
 Bolton went to the room allotted him, and en- 
 joyed a refreshing slumber. He had risen and eaten 
 of Frau Meyer’s best cookery, and was about to 
 sally forth into the air again, so anxious and eager 
 was he to be actively engaged, when the smiling 
 little German maid-servant handed him a letter, 
 with the information that she had “ promised faith- 
 fully to give it herself into the hands of the Herr 
 Doctor.” 
 
 Bolton tore the note open. It contained only 
 one line — 
 
 “Watch opposite house, No^70. ” 
 
 • He rushed to the dining-room window ; with the 
 aid of his glasses he found the number of the opposite 
 house to be 74. Walking into the next room, which 
 was the solon, he was directly opposite No. 70. It 
 was nearly six o’clock ; people of all classes were 
 going in and out of the house. Bolton took up a 
 
54 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 book, established himself in the window-seat, and 
 watched until his eyes ached and his head was 
 giddy. At last his keen observation was rewarded. 
 A man came slowly out of the house, and spite of 
 his marvelous “ get up,” which would have per- 
 suaded five people out of six that he was what he 
 appeared — a Prussian officer — Bolton recognized 
 Lord de Yere. The detective sprang from his seat, 
 left the window, and in another moment the house. 
 He followed the artillery officer, who walked swiftly 
 towards the Thiergarten. The day had been hot, 
 but the evening air was deliciously cool ; Bolton 
 felt quite elated as he “ shadowed ” his lordship. 
 By the beautiful statue of the lovely “ Konigin 
 Luise,” in the Thiergarten, Lord de Vere halted. 
 Presently a woman walked, evidently rather be- 
 lated, to the same spot ; together they walked 
 round and round the statue, talking earnestly, at 
 the last angrily. Bolton, who ventured as near as 
 he dared, heard : “Sick of it all; ” “When is it 
 to end?” “Hateful life,” from the woman, and 
 sharp, snarling replies from the man. At last, 
 with a fierce “ Return to her at once ; dare to dis- 
 obey me,” Lord de Yere closed the interview, and, 
 without another word or look, disappeared in the 
 direction of the Brandenburger Thor, leading to 
 “ Unter den Linden.” 
 
 The woman looked after him, stamped her foot, 
 and muttered something which sounded curiously 
 unlike a blessing on Lord de V ere ; then, with a pas- 
 sionate gesture as of one in an uncontrollable rage, 
 she threw herself upon one of the seats in the gar- 
 den, where she remained for some little time, but 
 only for a little time. The detective, who had 
 
I 
 
 A (( NOVEL v NOVEL. 55 
 
 made up his mind to follow her, and thereby find 
 out where the unhappy Duchess was living, saw a 
 man who, like himself, had lingered near the spot, 
 walk up to her, seat himself on the bench near her, 
 and commence a conversation. At first the girl — 
 who, it will have been already guessed, was the 
 treacherous maid of the Duchess of Mowbray — 
 threw up her head and deigned no answer to the 
 remarks of her companion; but soon her mood 
 changed. She listened, then she smiled, laughed, 
 and ere long she apparently was on the most 
 friendly terms with her new acquaintance, for she 
 rose and together they walked away, followed by 
 Bolton. 
 
 They went towards the celebrated “Kroll’s” 
 Gardens, which, as usual, were full of all sorts and 
 conditions of people listening to all sorts of music, 
 drinking every sort of beer, Bolton took his place 
 next to them, and was rewarded by hearing 
 snatches of their conversation which the lively 
 damsel sustained in a sufficiently fluent if some- 
 what vulgar French. But she gave no hint of her 
 own affairs, nor mentioned where she was living. 
 Some “ Tyroler Madchen ” were exciting their au- 
 dience to a fever of enthusiasm by their singing 
 and dancing. The lively crowd of German students 
 would take no refusal of their insistent encore. 
 “ Tanzen ja wieder, wieder tanzen,” they yelled! 
 They were so close to the platform that the per- 
 formers dared not refuse. The maid sneered. 
 
 “ I cannot see much in this stuff,” she said, 
 “and anyway, I must go now.” She rose from 
 her chair ; her companion followed, smiling at her 
 airs and graces. She allowed him to walk with 
 
56 A “novel” novel. 
 
 her ; arrived at the Brandenburger Thor, Boltoi 
 heard her ask the time. 
 
 “Oh, it is not late; not yet quite dark. Wt 
 left the gardens too soon. It was a special illumi 
 nation night, too.” The girl debated. At last sh< 
 said : “ I want to see the ‘ Passage ’ Unter dei 
 Linden all lighted up; if you like you can wall 
 with me.” Needless to say, the companion of hei 
 reckless choice at once assented. Arrived at th< 
 “ Passage,” which was full of promenaders and o 
 people sitting in the brilliantly lighted cafes, th< 
 maid feasted her eyes upon all the light and glitter 
 and Bolton steadily followed her. 
 
 Suddenly the girl’s face took upon it an ashj 
 look of fear. She turned hastily ; without a word 
 of excuse or farewell to her companion she dashec 
 through the crowd. It was as much as Boltor 
 could do to keep her in sight. Making her waj 
 out of the “ Passage,” she darted to the right, evi- 
 dently in fear of pursuit ; on and on, blinded by hei 
 fears, and confused by the jeers of such passers-by 
 as thought it worth their while to notice the flying 
 woman, she did not notice or hear the shouts of a 
 coachman who was driving swiftly round the cornel 
 of a street which runs across “ Unter den Linden.” 
 In another moment she was under the plunging 
 horses’ hoofs, rolling on the ground, and as Bol- 
 ton felt sure, only dragged from death by the 
 aid of a stalwart policeman at the risk of his own 
 life. 
 
 The policeman carried her on to the pavement, 
 the coachman swore loudly, and the crowd cf curi- 
 ous, gaping faces looked for a second at the shaken, 
 bruised woman, and then drifted on as they heard 
 
: J 
 
 A “novel” novel. 57 
 
 “ Only shaken.” Bolton alone remained. “ I am 
 a doctor,” he said quietly to the policeman. 
 
 The girl, who had not once lost consciousness, 
 moaned. “My arm! my arm!” she said, pite- 
 ously. 
 
 “ Hail a cab,” said Bolton to the policeman. 
 “ Now then, my good girl, I will take you home, 
 and see about your arm. Where to ? ” 
 
 She hesitated, then in a low voice gave an ad- 
 dress in the Dorothea Strasse. Bolton helped her 
 in, jumped in after her, and the kindly policeman, 
 who had been rewarded by the detective, shut 
 them in. 
 
 Bolton knew the cause of the girl’s sudden flight 
 out of the “ Passage.” In one of the front seats 
 pear the window of the largest cafe he had seen 
 Lord de Yere. The maid had dreaded he would 
 discover her disobedience and neglect of his orders 
 bo watch the Duchess, hence her fears and subse- 
 quent accident. 
 
 He did not believe she was really much hurt, 
 but he did not speak, and save for a moan at inter- 
 nals from the girl, they drove in silence to the 
 Dorothea Strasse. Alighting, they were admitted 
 by the porter ; the maid led the way to a door on 
 the first floor, rang the bell, and on its being an- 
 swered by a respectable-looking servant-maid, said 
 n very broken German : 
 
 “ Oh ! the terrible accident I have had. This 
 rind gentleman, the doctor, has brought me home. 
 My mistress, I fear, has wanted me, has been anx- 
 ous ; where is she, not already retired ? ” 
 
 As the maid spoke the servant turned up the 
 light, which had been lowered, until it blazed full 
 
58 A 44 NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 upon the face of the maid. In slow, distinct tones 
 she said: 
 
 44 Your mistress left the house half an hour aftei 
 you did. She left this note for you.” 
 
 The maid gasped, snatched the note, and almost 
 devoured it with her eyes as she read. In another 
 moment she fell heavily to the ground with the 
 Duchess of Mowbray’s note held tightly in her rig- 
 idly clenched hands. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 By Miss D. Bellerby. 
 
 Something in the expression of the Germar 
 woman’s face, as she gazed calmly down at the 
 prostrate girl, attracted Bolton’s attention. 
 
 44 Don’t give yourself needless trouble, Herr 
 Doctor ; she will recover ; she is not worth th£ 
 least bit of trouble.” 
 
 44 How do you know that ? ” asked Bolton, witt 
 a keen look into the shrewd, kindly face. 
 
 “ How can I say ? But I do know it.” 
 
 44 Perhaps you know, also, where the Duchess 
 is?” ’ j 
 
 44 Whom ? ” 
 
 4 4 The English lady ; this girl’s mistress.” 
 
 44 Did you not hear?” said the German, eva- 
 sively. 44 She left the house shortly after this 
 creature went out.” 
 
 44 Where did she go ? ” 
 
 44 Ach ! How can 1 say ? ” 
 
 44 Perhaps this little note will tell me,” said Bol 
 ton., bending towards the insensible Maillard anc 
 endeavoring to draw the paper from her hold ; bul 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 59 
 
 the fingers were perfectly rigid, and his utmost 
 strength failed to open them. 
 
 He looked up half-impatiently to meet the Ger- 
 man’s eyes fixed scrutinizingly on him ; answering 
 the question they asked so plainly, he said : 
 
 “ You need not fear to tell me all you know; 1 
 am an English detective, *and I desire to help the 
 Duchess — the lady who has been staying here.” 
 “You are not deceiving me?” inquired the 
 woman, anxiously. 
 
 “No! Herr Lendorf would settle any doubts 
 you may have on that score.” 
 
 At that magical name her face cleared and her 
 tongue became loosened : 
 
 “ The English lady — ach ! How lovely and how 
 sad she is !* — has engaged me as her maid to ac- 
 company her on her travels when she feels ready to 
 go. She has only gone into the next street to a 
 house where my mother lives ; there she will stay 
 until it is safe for her to venture abroad. This gir l 
 here has betrayed her; I don’t know how. The' 
 English lady, my new mistress, feels she can trust 
 me j but she says she is not free to tell me all her 
 trouble ; 'only I know that she wishes to escape 
 from her father. He will be here soon; will yea 
 see him ? ” 
 
 “ No ! ” said Bolton, promptly. “ Some day I 
 
 hope to speak to him to some purpose ; but now* 
 
 however, about that note ; I should like to read it. 
 
 “There is no necessity ; it only tells that faith- 
 less girl that her mistress has gone away, and that 
 it will be useless to attempt to track her.” 
 
 “Then I will be off for the present, and leave 
 her to you and to Lord de Vere. If she recover s 
 
60 
 
 A ‘ ‘ NOVEL ’ ’ NOVEL. 
 
 before he comes do not let her leave the house. It 
 will not do to lose sight of her.” 
 
 Bolton had rather resented being* told that he 
 was too self-confident ; but he was far too sensible 
 to disregard a useful hint ; so he determined to ask 
 Herr Lendorf ? s advice on the present state of affairs. 
 
 The great man listened with interest to what he 
 had to say ; then gave his opinion without the least 
 hesitation. “ Lord de Yere will leave Berlin im- 
 mediately : for two reasons. He will go in search 
 of his daughter ; and lie knows that he is not safe 
 here. Do you desire the honor of arresting him ? ” 
 “ Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” re- 
 plied Bolton. 
 
 “ So ? Then wait a moment.” 
 
 Herr Lendorf wheeled round to the table ; wrote 
 rapidly for two minutes, and then handed what he 
 had written to the English detective. Bolton 
 glanced at the paper, and saw it was a formal war- 
 rant, giving him power to arrest Lord de Yere, who 
 was described by half-a-dozen aliases . 
 
 “ Now go to your 'pension; take refreshment and 
 rest ; you never know how badly you may soon need 
 both. Do nothing until you hear from me.” 
 
 “ And the Duchess ? ” inquired Bolton, half afraid 
 the great man had been sufficiently ungallant to 
 have forgotten her Grace. 
 
 “ The Duchess will remain where she is for the 
 present,” replied Herr Lendorf, as decisively as if 
 he had commanded her to do so, and had no fear of 
 not being obeyed. 
 
 So Bolton returned to No. 49 Grossbeeren 
 Strasse, and ate a good supper, after which he 
 smoked a meditative pipe, and then went to sleep. 
 
A “ NOVEL ” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 61 
 
 Two hours later he was aroused by a touch on 
 his shoulder. A tall, fair, young fellow stood by 
 him. 
 
 “I was directed to give you this, Herr Stu- 
 dent,” he said, handing Bolton a folded paper. 
 
 “ Will you ? ” 
 
 But the young man was out of the room before 
 the words — merely an invitation to have something 
 to drink, the regular Englishman’s idea df hospi- 
 tality — were out of the detective’s mouth. 
 
 “ An aged countryman and his daughter leave 
 by the night train. They are traveling to Leipsic 
 en route for Vienna, to seek a sick relative. Better 
 follow them.” That was all the paper contained. 
 
 Bolton lost no time in going to the station, 
 where he quickly caught sight of an old peasant 
 and his daughter, in whom he would — certainly — 
 with all his cleverness, never have recognized the 
 aristocratic parent of the beautiful Duchess of Mow- 
 bray, and her Grace’s recreant maid. But if any 
 doubt arose in his mind, it was dispelled by the 
 tall, fair, young man who had visited him at the 
 pension . He sauntered towards Bolton, humming 
 a merry tune, fitting to it, as he passed, the words : 
 “ You have them ! Lose them not.” 
 
 Then the gate was opened, and they went on to 
 the platform as the train came in. There had been 
 many visitors to Berlin that day from the smaller 
 towns near, and several people were returning to 
 their homes b} r that train ; so, though he tried hard 
 to get into the same compartment with the old 
 countryman and th^ young countrywoman, Bolton 
 was not able to do so without drawing some atten- 
 tion to himself, which was the last thing he desired 
 
62 A “novel” novel. 
 
 to do. But he secured a corner seat of a compart- 
 ment in the next carriage, from whence he could 
 see every one who left the train. 
 
 Lord de Yere had found little difficulty in re- 
 storing his accomplice to her senses when he arrived 
 at the house in the Dorothea Strasse, where he ex- 
 pected to find his daughter awaiting instructions 
 for their next move. 
 
 The door was slightly open, as Bolton had left 
 it when he went out; and his lordship, entering 
 five minutes afterwards, found the maid still sense- 
 less on the floor, and the German servant calmly 
 watching her. 
 
 “ What is the matter ? ” asked Lord de Vere, 
 sharply. 
 
 Gretchen, who was not supposed to he aware of 
 his rank, raised her eyebrows, and pointed to the 
 form at her feet : 
 
 “ She came back in a carriage, spoke of an 
 accident, and fainted.” 
 
 “ Then why don’t you pick her up, and find out 
 where she is hurt ? ” 
 
 “ But I have not told all,” said the girl, delib- 
 erately, gazing straight into Lord de Yere’s eyes. 
 “ I had a note to give her from her mistress, who 
 went away quite early in the evening.” 
 
 “ Went away ! Where ? What are you talk- 
 ing about ? ” 
 
 Not one atom flurried by his fierce manner, 
 Gretchen replied : 
 
 “ The English lady left this house two hours 
 ago. How can I say where she went ? She left 
 that note for her maid.” 
 
 “What note?” 
 
63 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 “ The one in her hand : she has it clasped 
 tightly.” 
 
 Lord de Vere went down on his knees, and en- 
 deavored, as Bolton had done not long before, to 
 open the clenched fingers that held the little note. 
 But all to no purpose. 
 
 With an exclamation— fortunately for Gretchen’s 
 ears it was spoken in English — his noble lordship 
 drew a flask from his pocket, and poured some 
 brandy between Maillard’s teeth, which were 
 clenched as tightly as were her fingers. Brandy 
 was a thing she could never resist. Considering 
 how frequently she partook of it, it was rather sur- 
 prising that the present dose took effect so rapidly ; 
 but it is possible that Lord de Vere’s flask was sup- 
 plied with very different stuff to what the girl was 
 accustomed to buy. 
 
 She opened her eyes and sat up. Her gaze fell 
 on her employer, who stood directly under the 
 light, reading the note he had at length succeeded 
 in getting possession of. 
 
 Then Maillard sprang to her feet and made for 
 the door. Gretchen stopped her, clutching at her 
 arm. It was the arm that had been hurt, and the 
 girl shrieked with pain. Lord de Vere turned, and 
 swore at her most sweetly, demanding to know how 
 she had dared to neglect her charge. 
 
 “I simply walked a little for relaxation; after 
 
 so much traveling a walk is a treat ; and behold 
 
 but she was not allowed to finish. 
 
 “ Go to your mistress’s sitting-room ! ” said his 
 lordship, scarcely able to speak for anger and disap- 
 pointment ; but conscious that it would not do for 
 Gretchen to hear all that passed. 
 
64 A 66 NOVEL ?? NOVEL. 
 
 Gretchen, however, knew that it was of the 
 greatest importance that she should hear what 
 passed ; so she stole upstairs after them, when she 
 had made a pretense of banging the street door, 
 and noisily going towards the kitchen. The sitting- 
 room door did not fit any too closely ; and perhaps 
 that fact was answerable for the information which 
 eventually reached Bolton, and sent him to the sta- 
 tion in search of an old countryman and his daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Several persons got out when the train stopped 
 at the next station, but not the two he was watch- 
 ing for; so Bolton made his way to their compart- 
 ment, which was now half empty, and took a seat 
 on the s^ame side, where they wou’d not be likely to 
 notice him. He had made a slight alteration in his ap- 
 pearance, and he did not think it at all possible that 
 the girl Maillard would recognize him as the doctor 
 who had put her into a cab and taken her home 
 some hours before. 
 
 As the train started once more he glanced fur- 
 tively at her, thinking she had recovered very 
 quickly from the effects of the accident and subse- 
 quent swoon. There was but little of her face visi- 
 ble, and the light was very bad ; but Bolton could 
 see she was pale, and that her arms were hidden 
 under her shawl. Possibly the injured one was in 
 a sling, and she hid both in order to call no atten- 
 tion to it. Her dress was the everyday attire of a 
 Prussian peasant. Lord de Vere’s disguise was 
 much more complete. He had bowed his tall form 
 until he looked inches shorter than his real height ; 
 and he had contrived to do away so entirely with 
 his haughty aristocratic bearing and manner as to 
 
A “ NOVEL” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 65 
 
 make Bolton think, whimsically, that the air noble 
 which had hitherto distinguished him (in spite of 
 his ignoble deeds) belonged, in reality, to his clothes 
 and not to himself. 
 
 “His tailor would soon make his fortune if that 
 was so ! ” said the detective to himself, straining 
 his ears to listen to a conversation that was being 
 commenced between the two. 
 
 “ If we should not be in time ! ” exclaimed the 
 girl, plaintively, in a low tone. 
 
 “Don’t fear that,” replied her supposed father, 
 in a guttural voice that was most unlike my Lord 
 de Vere’s usual clear utterances ; “ she will not die 
 until we come ; after sending the money for our 
 journey, too.” 
 
 “ I am thankful she wishes us to be friends at 
 last, my father ; it did not seem right that we 
 should be slighted just because we are poor. Per- 
 haps ” 
 
 “Well, Madchen ? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps she means to leave us something, I 
 was going to say.” 
 
 “Hush, child! Your tongue runs away with 
 you/’ 
 
 After that rebuke there was silence. Bolton 
 could not help admiring the thoroughness with 
 which they acted their parts. Had he not known 
 them to be Lord de Vere and the Duchess of Mow- * 
 bray’s maid, he would never have guessed that he 
 had seen either before. 
 
 He amused himself with arranging his plan for 
 accomplishing rhe arrest, finally deciding that Leip- 
 sic Station w^ould be the best place for that purpose. 
 Of course there was nothing to prevent his arrest- 
 
66 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 ing Lord de Yere at once; but there were too pow- 
 erful fellows in the compartment, and if they chose 
 to take their supposed countryman’s part, there 
 was nothing to prevent them throwing the detect- 
 ive out of the window. Bo he prudently determined 
 to have a little patience. 
 
 Leipsic at last ! 
 
 The old man and his daughter roused themselves 
 from what had seemed a sound sleep, though the 
 watchful Bolton guessed that they had only been 
 shamming. 
 
 The three stepped on to the platform, and when 
 well under one of the row of lights — not very bril- 
 liant lights — the detective, advancing a foot or so, 
 placed his hand heavily on the old man’s shoulder, 
 and said in English : — 
 
 “ Lord de Yere, you are my prisoner ! ” 
 
 “Hein! ” 
 
 The old countryman raised his head, as well as 
 he could for his infirmity, and looked inquiringly at 
 the foreigner who had addressed him. 
 
 Bolton withdrew his hand in dismay. 
 
 This was no more Lord de Vere than he was! 
 The features were strange to him, and the man 
 was, without doubt, what he appeared to be— a 
 Prussian peasant. 
 
 And the girl — his daughter ? Well, she was 
 certainly not Lady Seringa’s treacherous maid ; 
 her honest face — seen more clearly under the gas- 
 light — was quite different to Maillard’s crafty 
 countenance. 
 
 Bolton stood aghast, too much taken aback to 
 speak ; and the two passed on without giving him 
 another thought. 
 
A ‘ ‘ NOVEL ’ ’ NOVEL. 
 
 67 
 
 Who was to blame ? 
 
 Gretchen ? 
 
 The tall, fair, young man ? 
 
 Herr Lendorf ? 
 
 Himself ? 
 
 It was impossible to say. One thing only was 
 certain ; the small man from London, and the great 
 man at Berlin had both been cleverly outwitted by 
 that past-master among rogues — the unhappy 
 Duchess of Mowbray’s father, Lord de Yere. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 B y Mis s Eva Ro o s . 
 Disappointed and humiliated, Bolton took the 
 return train for Berlin, and was soon in Dorothea 
 Strasse again. 
 
 He was determined to sift the affair to the bot- 
 tom ; to see if the German girl was an accomplice, 
 before he reported matters to Herr Lendorf. 
 
 He found the street-door of the Duchess’s tem- 
 porary residence open, and the hall in confusion. 
 Quietly entering the sitting-room, he surprised the 
 Diensmadchen ” in the act of laying the tea-table. 
 “Ach! mein Herr, wie Sie haben mich er- 
 schreckt ! ” she exclaimed, letting the tea-pot fall on 
 the tray with a clatter, “ have you arrested them, 
 that wicked girl anc} her master ? ” 
 
 “No,” answered Bolton, sternly, “and I want 
 to know exactly what you had to do with it. Did 
 Lord de Yere come home ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; and he made a great ‘ Schlagerei ’ with 
 the English girl in Madame’s sitting-room. I lis- 
 tened to them behind the door.” 
 
68 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 “ Well ? I suppose you heard them say where 
 they were going to ? ” 
 
 “ I informed mein Herr in the note that they 
 were going to Hamburg by the night train, in the 
 * Verkleidung 5 of a young married couple.” 
 
 Bolton started up aghast : 
 
 “Woman ! your note told me to follow an old 
 peasant and his daughter ! ” he shouted. “ And 
 here have I wasted precious time, while that scoun- 
 drel gets away unchecked.” 
 
 “So wahr ich lebe, mein Herr!” replied the 
 - girl earnestly, “ I wrote to you as I have said. I 
 hid behind the curtain on the landing, and saw 
 them come stealthily out. She was dressed in dark 
 blue, with a large black shawl on to hide her ban- 
 daged arm ; and he — ach Himmel ! I should not 
 have known him ; he was transformed into a tall, 
 fair, young man, in ” 
 
 “In a light gray Suit,” interrupted Bolton, ex- 
 citedly, and crimsoning to think that he, one of the 
 ablest detectives of Scotland Yard, should have 
 spoken to the man and not recognized him. 
 
 “ Ja, mein Herr,” she rejoined, looking curiously ; 
 at his disgusted face,“ in a light gray suit. I ran, 
 downstairs when they had gone, and wrote the 
 note. A Polizei was lounging about just outside, 
 so I gave it to him to carry to Herr Lendorf, with 
 a message to send it on to you as quickly as pos- 
 sible. I could not send it direct, because I did not 
 know the address.” 
 
 Hastily scribbling his alias, street, and number 
 on a leaf in his pocket-book, Bolton tore it out, and 
 handed it to Gretchen. 
 
 “If you want to inform me of anything, that 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 69 
 
 name and address will alwa} r s find me,” lie said; 
 “ and now listen attentively, Gretchen, for I must 
 hurry to Herr Lendorf and report matters. You 
 say your new mistress is in the next street ? ” 
 
 “ Ja ! Number Achtzehn, mein Herr ! ” 
 
 “ Well ! You must not say a word to that poor 
 lady about me ; it would only alarm her. Communi- 
 cate to me anything* you may find out ; remember, 
 it will be all for her good ; and send me a telegram 
 at once if Lord de Yere gets hold of her again. 
 He is persecuting her for some wicked purpose of 
 his own, and I want to find out what that is ; there- 
 fore do not scruple to tell me anything which your 
 mistress may confide to you. Your communica- 
 tions will be in safe hands.” 
 
 Then, with a few hurried words of caution, Bol- 
 ton left the house. 
 
 Hailing a droschke, he drove quickly to the great 
 detective’s residence. Here he related how he had 
 been duped by the Duchess’s wily father, telling his 
 story with humiliation and a stinging sense of de- 
 feat that filled him with bitter anger. 
 
 Herr Lendorf sat silently meditating for a while, 
 then he spoke. 
 
 “ I am sorry this has happened, Herr Bolton ; 
 the Polizei must have been an accomplice, for I did 
 not receive any note. I think the best thing you 
 can do would be to return to your pension , and set- 
 tle with Frau Meyer. You must change your ad- 
 dress, for it it is evident you are watched by Baron 
 de Yere’s spies. You might drop a line to the 
 Duchess’s new maid to apprise her of your inten- 
 tions. Here is pen and paper.” 
 
 Bolton sat down, and began writing rapidly, 
 
70 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 while his companion speedily became immersed in 
 his own affairs. 
 
 As he was thus employed, Herr Lendorf’s well- 
 trained Bediente entered, saying- in quiet tones : 
 
 “Two English gentlemen to see you, mein 
 Herr.” 
 
 Bolton glanced up in some annoyance at the in- 
 terruption, for he would have liked to ask the great 
 detective a few questions more ; but his temporary 
 anger gave way to surprise when he saw the Duke 
 of Mowbray’s two firm friends— Mr. Lyndhurst and 
 Mr. Tredegar. 
 
 They in their turn were equally astonished at 
 thus unexpectedly stumbling over him, for Bolton 
 had not communicated with the Duke, but had 
 waited till he could send him a favorable report; 1 
 so the inmates of the silent house in Hanover Square 
 were completely in the dark as to his or the Duch-i 
 ess’s whereabouts. 
 
 “We came to consult Herr Lendorf,” Tredegar 
 said, when the first greetings and inquiries were 
 over. “ The Duke was in such anxiety that we de- 
 termined to try and trace her ourselves, if only for 
 the purpose of easing his mind. Up to now we have 
 met with no success. Do you know, Mr. Bolton, 
 that she is at present in Vandsbecker Allee, living 
 entirely by herself ? ” 
 
 “I am aware of it,” was Bolton’s reply. “I 
 have already consulted Herr Lendorf about it. You 
 had better come with me to my lodgings ; we can 
 talk matters over by the way.” 
 
 With a cordial farewell, they left the great 
 man’s office and set briskly out for Grossbeeren 
 Strasse, Lyndhurst and Tredegar relating the news 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 71 
 
 as they went — how the Duke was out of danger, 
 though still seriously, ill ; how devoted Lady Al- 
 lonby was in her sisterly nursing ; how kind and 
 sympathetic all their friends were ; and, lastly, 
 how wild and improbable were the surmises of the 
 gossips in their “ set,” the latest report which they 
 had set afloat being that Lady Seringa had eloped 
 with her own coachman ! 
 
 They arrived at their destination just as they 
 had finished their narrative. 
 
 Honest Frau Meyer met them at the door with 
 a piece of paper in her hand. 
 
 “A little hoy brought this for you about ten 
 minutes ago,” she said, handing the note to the 
 “student of medicine.” 
 
 “ Come at once. Madam is in danger. — Gret- 
 CHEN.” 
 
 That was all it contained. Bolton read the 
 words with a sinking heart. Was she, too, going 
 to escape him ? 
 
 Hurriedly informing his two companions of this 
 fresh catastrophe, he ran out, and stopped one of 
 the many carriages driving by. 
 
 With the words, . “ Vandsbeeker Allee — drive 
 like the devil ; I will make it worth your while,” 
 Bolton sprang in, closely followed by Lyndhurst 
 and Tredegar, and was driven off at a breakneck 
 speed. 
 
 Just as they reached the corner of the Allee, the 
 tired horse gave a great lurch and then fell with a 
 crash to the ground, nearly upsetting the rickety 
 carriage as well. 
 
 It did not take a minute to leap out and ascer- 
 tain what was the matter. 
 
72 A “NOVEL” NOVEL. 
 
 “Quick,” gasped Bolton, whose keen eye had 
 caught sight of a droschke standing at the door of 
 No. 18, some distance away. “ There they are ! ” 
 
 With a curse upon their luck, the three men ran 
 at their utmost speed to where a small group was 
 standing on the pavement. A mac 1 and a woman 
 seemed to be holding a lifeless figure between them, 
 while a small crowd of gaping peasants were hover- 
 ing near. Gretchen’s comfortable figure was no- 
 where to be seen. 
 
 But it was of no use. Lord de Vere caught 
 sight of them as they came tearing down in pur- 
 suit. Hastily bundling the inanimate form into the 
 cab, he and the maid stepped in and were driven 
 rapidly off before their very eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER X. ; 
 
 By Miss Kathleen Watson. 
 
 In about three minutes Bolton, Lyndhurst' and 
 Tredegar arrived at 18, Vandsbecker Allee, breath- 
 less, panting and scarcely able to speak for bitter 
 mortification. 
 
 The droschke containing Lord de Yere and his 
 ill-fated daughter had turned down a side-street and 
 entirely disappeared. 
 
 “ However, they can’t be very far off,” said; 
 Lyndhurst, who appeared the most hopeful of the ' 
 three. “ Let us go in and see what this little 
 Gretclien of yours and her mother have to say fori 
 themselves.” 
 
 They were told by the hall-porter that Frau 
 Schmidt lived on the third etage, and let her rooms 
 out in apartments. He also volunteered the in- 
 formation that Frau Schmidt herself had gone out 
 to do her marketing about an hour before, but that, 
 to the best of his belief, her daughter Gretchen was 
 still upstairs. 
 
 “ Have you any idea,” said Bolton, “ where that 
 
A c c NOVEL ’ ’ NOVEL. 
 
 73 
 
 carriage was going to — the one that has just gone 
 off with a gentleman, a lady and a maid inside ? ” 
 
 “ Ja wohl, mein Herr, the order was given to 
 drive to the Leipziger Bahnhof. I said myself to 
 the gentleman that the lady was not fit to travel, 
 but he answered that it was only a temporary faint- 
 ness, and that they must catch a certain train.” 
 
 “I feel pretty well convinced that it is all a 
 blind,” said Bolton, turning to the Duke’s two 
 friends. As a detective himself he was beginning 
 to have an immense respect for Lord de Vere’s 
 ingenuity ! 
 
 “Still,” he continued, “ I think it would be as 
 well, perhaps, if one of you two gentlemen would 
 kindly get a droschke and drive off at- once to the 
 Leipziger Bahnhof and make every inquiry there. 
 We are not all three needed here, and it would be 
 wiser to separate.” 
 
 Lyndhurst instantly offered to go, but, unfor- 
 tunately, it was some little time before he could get 
 a droschke, and even then the ca"bby was not ex- 
 actly a Jehu. 
 
 When he arrived at his destination, it was to 
 find that no people answering to the description 
 given by him had alighted there that day. 
 
 “What a beastly bother, to be sure ! ” said this 
 puzzled young man, whose ways of life had not led 
 him into this sort of thing before. “Now, I should 
 like to be able to do Mowbray a good turn ; he’s 
 far too decent a fellow to be made a scapegoat for 
 the sins of that old brute De Yere. Suppose, now, 
 I go in for a little amateur detective business on 
 my own account. But how on earth to set about 
 it — that’s where the pull is ! ” 
 
 There we will leave him, standing under the 
 portico of the great central station, awaiting an 
 inspiration from Heaven, from earth, from any- 
 thing ! 
 
 In the meantime Bolton and Tredegar had 
 mounted the steps up to the third etage. 
 
 The door stood slightly open. 
 
74 A “novel” novel. 
 
 Bolton pealed the hell, and called loudly foi 
 Gretchen. 
 
 Receiving no answer, the two men entered, and 
 went at hazard into the first room they came to. 
 
 It happened to he the chief sitting-room. A 
 strong, peculiar smell pervaded the apartment — a 
 smell about which there could he no possible mis- 
 take. 
 
 The two men looked at each other, and ex- 
 claimed, simultaneously : 
 
 “ Chloroform ! ” 
 
 Sure enough, in a corner of the room, partially 
 concealed by the sofa, lay Gretchen, stretched or 
 the floor in a heavy, senseless stupor. 
 
 It was quite clear. Both the Duchess and her 
 faithful little attendant had been, within the last 
 half-hour, subjected to the same hideous treat- 
 ment. 
 
 * * * * * ! 
 
 High up among the hills that lie beyond the 
 
 little town of Bautzen, the capital of Saxon Lusa- 
 tia, there stands, all hidden among its groves of 
 cypress and of yew, the Cistercian nunnery of the 
 Sacre Coeur. 
 
 The order is one which they tell us is dying out j 
 nevertheless, in old-world places where the influ- 
 ence of the French Revolution was less severely 
 felt, those who run may still discover here and 
 there a quiet, gray retreat of the Cistercian orders 
 where sweet sisters of the Cross dedicate them- 
 selves first to God and then to His poor. 
 
 Late one evening, when the last vespers had 
 been sung and the altar lights one by one put out 
 in the little chapel of the Sacre Coeur, ther« came a 
 sharp and violent ringing at the great iron entrance 
 gate. 
 
 The aged porter hastened to draw back the 
 huge bolts, and see what was wanted. 
 
 A gentleman stepped from a carriage, in which, 
 in the dim light, two other figures could be just 
 discerned. 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 75 
 
 He gave in a card, with the name of Captain 
 Dallas on it, and asked to see the Mother Superior 
 without delay. 
 
 On being admitted into her presence, he ex- 
 plained, with profuse apologies for troubling her, 
 that he was traveling with his daughter into Saxon 
 Switzerland. 
 
 His daughter was the victim of a morbid melan- 
 cholia, and at times, as at the present, was in a 
 state of complete nervous prostration. He had had 
 the advice of the most talented physicians in 
 Europe ; he had tried all the renowned cures and 
 waters of France and Germany; nothing was of 
 avail; until at last, he sorrowfully said, his faith 
 in doctors had given way altogether. 
 
 Passing through the country and hearing much 
 at Bautzen, where he had arrived that morning, of 
 the fine air of the surrounding hills, it had occurred 
 to his despairing father’s heart whether a short 
 sojourn at the convent might not be of some bene- 
 fit to his poor afflicted daughter who seemed so sick 
 of cities and society, he said. 
 
 He pleaded urgently with the Mother Superior ; 
 he begged her to try and arrange the matter ; he 
 put a purse before her containing gold and bank- 
 notes. Then, noting the surprise and the reproach 
 [of her face, he said, with the savoir faire that ha 
 had carried with him through all the ways of a 
 much-checkered life : 
 
 “ For your poor, surely you will take it for 
 them : shadowed as my own life has lately been ’* 
 (and here this touchingly sad gentleman, who, it 
 will be guessed, was none other than Lord de Vere 
 himself, thought he was not so very far wrong !), 
 still I always find consolation in being able to 
 relieve the sorrows of others.” 
 
 The Mother hesitated. Not from any want of 
 lospitable feelings at all, but in truth she did not 
 ike either the .manner or the appearance of the 
 nan before her, in spite of his overwhelming affa- 
 oility. She was not as impressed, as she perhaps 
 
76 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 ought to have been, by his paternal solicitude. 
 Something in the tone of his voice, in the expres- 
 sion of his face,- struck her as false, unreal. But 
 she thought also of her poor, who in the hard, long 
 winter would come to the convent for relief from 
 miles around, whose bitter distress this stranger’s 
 gold would do so much to alleviate. He saw the 
 signs of relenting on her face, and he took the 
 settlement of the matter for granted. Her maid, 
 he said, would wait entirely on his daughter. He, 
 himself, had pressing business, which he would seize 
 the occasion to attend to, and then he proposed to 
 return and fetch her, or leave her to stay on longer, 
 as might be thought best. 
 
 Sad and strange to say, his daughter had taken 
 a positive dislike to him ! He was told that it was 
 quite a usual feature in cases of the sort for the 
 victims of this dreadful melancholy to hate the 
 sight of those nearest and dearest to them ; still it : 
 was not the least painful part of the whole thing. 
 
 The maid was a person who thoroughly under-* 
 stood the case, he said, and although his daughter’ 
 appeared to dislike her presence also, yet the close 
 attendance of this faithful servant was absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 In conclusion, he expressed a hope that there 
 was no possible chance of his. daughter’s being able; 
 to escape from the precincts of the convent. ~ Here' 
 the Mother looked at him for a moment with a‘ 
 grave, curious look. He hastened to explain that 
 his daughter had tried once or twice before to elude; 
 the loving but necessary surveillance of those about* 
 her. 
 
 During the latter part of the conversation, the 
 kindly Mother had felt her heart stir within her in 
 a strange emotion, and go out with a great pity j 
 towards this daughter whom she had never seen,f 
 and to whom she felt, nevertheless, instinctively i 
 drawn. 
 
 “Indeed, we will take her in; she shall be sur-' 
 rounded with love and peace. Perhaps she will not 
 
A ^ NOVEL 77 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 77 
 
 even wish to go from us, but have no fear. The 
 walls are high, and there is only one means of 
 egress — the great iron gate by which you entered 
 —and no one goes either in or out without the 
 knowledge of the porter. Is she still all this time 
 in the carriage ? Oh, let us fetch her in at once. 
 The suffering, just as much as the poor or the sin- 
 ful, we have always with us . 77 
 
 Then she led the wa}^ down the long, silent cor- 
 ridor, summoned one or two sisters on her way, to 
 render any assistance that might be needed, and 
 went forth to meet this unknown daughter. 
 
 When they brought her in, all who saw her 
 marveled at her ethereal loveliness. So fair, so 
 faint, so fragile-looking ; her helplessness, quite as 
 much as her beauty, won those gentle hearts for 
 her at once. She walked unaided, but there was a 
 great weakness and a great weariness in her step. 
 
 Except that she shuddered slightly as her eyes 
 rested for a moment on the cold gray walls around 
 her, she made no movement and she spoke no word. 
 
 Her great eyes had a strange, dazed look about 
 them, as if even the power of suffering was gone. 
 
 Till the kind Mother came forward and took both 
 the hands of this sorrowing daughter in her own, 
 and bade her sweetest welcome. 
 
 Then a faint, slow smile shone from those sad 
 and tearless eyes, that had seemed to see nothing — a 
 smile which said better than any words could say 
 it : “ You are a friend ; I will trust jmu . 77 
 
 Lord de Vere, who during these proceedings had 
 appeared slightly embarrassed, after a few injunc- 
 tions in a low voice to Maillard, took the occasion 
 to depart. 
 
 He had played many roles in his life, but it was 
 the first time he had assumed that of a father 
 weighed down with anxious paternal concern. Of 
 the further adventures “ by flood and field 77 of this 
 heartless old scamp — more anon ! 
 
 For long hours his daughter lay in the little 
 room to which they took her, prostrate, apparently 
 
78 A “novel” novel. 
 
 unconscious, seeing 1 nothing, and hearing nothing. 
 She had no fever, as on that first night they had 
 feared she would have. Only she lay there with 
 that dull, fixed look on her face — as of one who 
 knew that the anguish of life was greater far than 
 any anguish of death could ever be. 
 
 Maiilard very soon did not scruple to show that 
 she thought life at the convent an intolerable bore, 
 but kept the most discreet silence on every other 
 matter. 
 
 When she saw that there could be no possible 
 harm in it, she left her charge a good deal in the hands 
 of the sisters, and amused herself as best she could, 
 either in the refectories, or by taking herself off to 
 a nice set luded part of the gardens, where she might 
 indulge in the light, questionable literature with 
 which she had taken care to well provide herself. 
 
 So they ministered to this sad and lonely daugh- 
 ter who had come among them so strangely — these 5 
 gentle sisters of the Sacre Coeur. They waited on 
 her with a beautiful devotion. The finest grapes ; 
 and peaches that the gardens grew were all for her. 
 Odorous late roses were put freshly in her chamber 
 every day. Through her open lattice all the dear 
 old convent scents and sounds came in on the wings 
 of the autumn winds — the scents of lavender and 
 jessamine, the sounds of holy chant and psalm. 
 
 Slowly, under these tender influences, her; 
 strength of mind and body both began to mend.' 
 She was interested in what went on around her. 
 
 The sweet, serene lives of these white-robed Sis- ' 
 ters cf the Cross appealed to her with an irresistible 
 appeal. 
 
 She wondered, vaguely, if it would be perhaps 
 possible that she herself might of her own free will 
 live here amongst them for ever, silently carrying 
 her agony with her to the grave. 
 
 But even as she wondered thus, pacing the quiet 
 garden walks, her eyes filled suddenly with a des- 
 perate longing. 
 
 For she thought of the life that might have been 
 
 -m 
 
A “ novel’' novel. 79 
 
 hers, the life far away, outside those great, high 
 convent walls. 
 
 She thought of the night before her marriage, 
 how at a State ball, a prince of the blood, with 
 whom she had the honor to be dancing, had ex- 
 pressed a hope that he would meet herself and the 
 Duke that autumn, at a certain great house in the 
 North. 
 
 She thought of the beautiful, the pleasant, the 
 graceful life which she and her gallant lover had 
 planned so joyfully together, of the good they 
 meant to do and of the sadness they would relieve. 
 
 Until the pain of it all seemed more than she 
 could bear. 
 
 Still, she never doubted that, knowing what she 
 did, she had done rightly in leaving him within one 
 short hour almost of her wedded life. 
 
 Only the longing was strong and wild in her at 
 times to send him one line, one word, just to sa>y 
 that she loved him more than her life, and that her 
 loyalty would be unto death. Cruel and remorse- 
 less hands had taken from her, while she lay un- 
 conscious, the glorious jewel which had been his 
 bridal gift to her, but its motto, “ Loyal a Mort,” 
 would be her watchword to the end. 
 
 A plan half formed itself in her tortured brain 
 that she might at least write to her darling’s sis- 
 ter, Lady Allonby, to whom alone she had confided 
 the full horror of that first early marriage, six years 
 or more ago. 
 
 Or surely into the ears of that Mother Supe- 
 rior, so good and kind, she might pour some part of 
 her sorrow, and get comfort, and perhaps assist- 
 ance, too. 
 
 Or was it better still to be forever silent ? 
 
 As she thought on all these things she was 
 walking in the beautiful yew walk with one of 
 the sisters to whom she had become especially 
 attached. 
 
 It had been one of those bright, calm — if one 
 might say so, one of those holy — days, which the 
 
80 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 late autumn sometimes brings in her golden 
 train. 
 
 The sun had gone down, and one or two stars 
 were trembling in the pale sky. 
 
 From the little chapel a glorious harmony poured 
 forth on to the still evening air. 
 
 “ Tell me, what are they singing?” she asked 
 of the sister at her side. 
 
 “ Dear, they are chanting for the repoSe of the 
 souls of those who have died.” 
 
 Came back the sorrowful, sweet reply : “ Do 
 
 they e^-er pray for the repose of the souls of those 
 who live ? ” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 By Mrs. J. M. Bull. 
 
 Let us leave the unfortunate Duchess of Mow- 
 bray to gain strength of mind and body among the 
 sweet sisters of the convent of the Sacre Coeur, and 
 let us see what the poor Duke, her forsaken hus- : 
 band, is doing all this time. 
 
 He had not been pronounced fit to travel until 
 the end of August, and then, accompanied by his 
 faithful friends, Lyndhurst and Tredegar, he started 
 to the Continent to personally conduct the weary 
 search. i 
 
 _ The German police had failed to obtain even the; 
 slightest clew to the whereabouts of the fugitives, - 
 and so they were obliged to content themselves; 
 with adding the chloroforming of Gretchen to the i 
 already black record against De Yere. 
 
 Bolton, equally unsuccessful and bitterly humili- 
 ated, had offered voluntarily to throw up the case, 
 and let another man take his place, but the Duke, 
 who felt that he had done all that was possible, and 
 who was touched by his personal interest in the case, 
 would not hear of his resignation. So wherever the 
 three friends journeyed Bolton was in close attend- 
 ance upon them, but, alas ! their efforts had not 
 been crowned with success, and it really seemed as 
 
 
A “NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 81 
 
 if the earth must have opened and swallowed up 
 the Duchess, her maid, and De Yere, so entirely had 
 they disappeared. 
 
 Often and often had Bolton to recount to the 
 Duke his interview with the Duchess in the Park 
 train, and the Duke prized the ring- she had sent him 
 then more than anything he had left in* the world. 
 One day, late in October, the three friends sat at 
 breakfast in the Hotel Victoria, Dresden. The 
 Duke, who seemed, if possible, more depressed than 
 usual this morning, pushed away his cup impa- 
 tiently, and went out on the balcony, where h@ 
 threw himself into a chair, and sat, and brooded. 
 
 Poor Carrol ! Who could apply his old nickname 
 of “Society’s Darling” to him now? Thin and 
 gaunt, with hollow cheeks, sorrow had marked him 
 for her own, and a hopeless, yearning look in his 
 eyes went to the hearts of those who loved him. 
 
 “ I say, Tredegar,” said Lyndhurst to his friend 
 inside ; “ I really feel as if I should commit suicide 
 myself — Mowbray wouldn’t even make a decent 
 ghost of hip former self. If only we could cheer 
 him up up a little bit it would be encouraging, but 
 he seems to get worse, instead of better, every day.** 
 “Well,” returned Tredegar, “you know, it is 
 rather a blow to lose a wife just as one has married 
 her.” 
 
 “Yes, poor old boy, I know. Well, my leave will 
 be up next week, but I should like this mystery to 
 be solved before I retire from the field.” 
 
 “ No chance for that, I’m afraid,” said Tredegar, 
 “Well, I, being a free-lance, shall stick to old Mow- 
 bray as long as he wants me. What was his mo- 
 tive, do you think, in coming to Dresden again ? ” 
 
 “ Can’t say, but he evidently had a motive. Did 
 you notice yesterday morning how bright he seemed* 
 and how bent he was on getting here as quickly as 
 possible. When we arrived he seemed to be ex- 
 pecting something to happen, but nothing did, of 
 course, and to-day his spirits have sunk to zero 
 again. Don’t you think, Tredegar, that a con vie- 
 
82 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 tion comes over him now and again that the firsl 
 husband is living? You know he has had lots o: 
 inquiries set on foot about him, and no one seems 
 absolutely certain of his death.” 
 
 “ Well, alive or dead, he seems to have been a 
 bad iot, said Tredegar. “ I should think he and 
 that beast De vere must have been congenial 
 spirits.” 
 
 “Hush!” whispered Clive Lyndhurst : “here 
 comes Mowbray.” 
 
 , 1 redegar,” said the Duke, “ would you mind 
 
 looking* up Bolton, and seeing if he has any news 
 to-day ? Will you take a turn with me, Clive ? 
 I ve got such a wretched headache this morning/ 5 
 Both men cordially agreed, for they would have 
 done anything to lighten the heavy burden on their 
 friend’s shoulders. 
 
 ‘‘ Clive,” said Mowbray, taking his arm, as they 
 walked out of the hotel together, 44 I daresay you' 
 wondered yesterday at my eagerness to get to 
 Dresden from Prague. Now, you are the oldest 
 friend I have in the world, and I know you will not 
 laugh at me. Do you believe in dreams, Clive ? ” 
 Well, I don’t know,” replied Clive, slowly, as 
 visions of awful nightmares he had had rose before 
 him. “I think they are very real sometimes.” 
 
 “ The night before last,” the Duke went on, “I 
 saw Seringa quite plainly in a dream. She looked 
 pale and ill, and her eyes shone like two stars. She* 
 beckoned to me, and I heard her calling 4 Carrol/ 
 I tried to answer her, but could not speak. Then! 
 she sSid, ‘ Go to Dresden. 5 I held out my arms to 
 her, and in the effort to call out to her I awoke. 
 Now you know why I wanted to come to Dresden. 
 I don’t know what I expected to happen, but when 
 we got here, and nothing fresh turned up, my heart 
 sank. I went to bed hoping and praying that she 
 would appear again, but I was disappointed ; I did 
 not dream at all. What do you think the dream 
 meant, Clive ? 55 
 
 “ I don’t know at all, 55 was Clive’s reply ; “ but 
 
A “ NOVEL” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 82 
 
 don’t distress yourself, old boy. Something* ma;s 
 turn up yet.” 
 
 They were walking down the Schloss Strasse a^ 
 they talked, and the Duke looked eagerly aboui 
 him. He paused outside a large jeweler’s shop. 
 
 “ Ah ! Clive,” said he, mournfully, “ I’m afraid 
 I shall never have to buy trinkets for a woman 
 again.” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” returned his friend ; “ why, be 
 fore long I hope you will be buying them for you 
 wife again.” 
 
 Finding that the Duke did not respond to hit 
 cheering reply, Lyndhurst, who had been looking 
 down the street, turned round, and found him star- 
 ing speechlessly at the jeweler’s window, with a 
 face from which every particle of color had fled. 
 
 “ Good heavens, man ! ” cried Clive, “ what or 
 earth is the matter? You look as if you had see* 
 a ghost.” 
 
 “The bracelet! the bracelet!” gasped the 
 Duke. 
 
 “What bracelet, and where?” cried the be 
 wildered Guardsman. 
 
 “ There,” said the Duke, pointing to the win 
 dow ; “ Seringa’s bracelet.” 
 
 “ Is it, really ? ” asked Clive, getting excited ir 
 his turn. “ But are you quite sure, old boy ? ” 
 
 “Positive. I had it designed for her. Cannot 
 you see the ‘ Loyal a Mort ? ’ It has been tampered 
 with, but it is Seringa’s bracelet. And Clive, i 
 remember now,” he went on piteously, “ she hadn’t 
 it on in the dream. She came to tell me where it 
 was. God bless her ! ” 
 
 “ Well, let us go in and buy it. We may per 
 haps get a clew through this. You keep quiet, ol 
 fellow, I’ll do the talking; ” and Clive led the wa 
 into the shop. 
 
 The bracelet was instantly produced for his in 
 spectien. The Duke took it eagerly. The miniatur 
 had, of course, been removed, and the lid contain- 
 ing the hair, with the Duke’s coronet and initial 
 
84 A “novel” novel. 
 
 outside, had been replaced by one of plain gold. 
 The date of marriage on the inner side of the brace- 
 let had been obliterated, but the words “This and 
 my heart ” were still there. The Duke, speechless 
 with emotion, nodded to Clive, who at once agreed 
 to buy the bracelet at the price named. 
 
 “ Do you remember,” said Lyndhurst, care- 
 lessly, to the jeweler. “ where you got that brace- 
 let ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, sir,” he replied. “It belongs to my 
 brother, who is a goldsmith at Bautzen. He 
 thought that he would have few chances of selling 
 it there, and so asked me to show it in my window 
 for him.” 
 
 “ Can you give us any information as to who 
 sold him the bracelet ? ” 
 
 “None whatever, sir.” 
 
 “ Did he say if there was any mystery about the, 
 purchase of the bracelet ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not, sir, or he would not have bought 
 it, and I should not be selling it. No respectable 
 jeweler would,” he answered, with dignify. 
 
 The Duke wrote a check for the bracelet. Clive 
 obtained the brother’s name and address, and they 
 left the shop. 
 
 As they returned to their hotel, eagerly discuss- 
 ing the matter, they met Tredegar and Bolton, to! 
 whom they recounted their adventure. 
 
 Bolton brightened visibly. This life of inaction' 
 was very trying to his energetic spirit. 
 
 “ It’s the maid who has done this little job, your] 
 Cfrace ; Lord de V ere is far too sharp to commit 
 such a blunder,” he remarked. 
 
 They caught the next train to Bautzen, and 
 drove to the address given them by the jeweler at 
 Dresden. 
 
 “ There it is : ‘ Johann Schmidt,’ ” cried Lynd- 
 hurst. 
 
 The Duke and Bolton went into the shop, leav- 
 ing Lyndhurst and Tredegar in the carriage. The 
 Duke showed the bracelet to Mr. Schmidt, and told 
 
A “ NOVEL ” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 85 
 
 him he had just bought it in his brother’s shop at 
 Dresden. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” said the man; “it is a beautiful 
 bracelet. I am sure you will find it a most accept- 
 able present.” 
 
 “ Could you tell us where you got it ? ” asked 
 Bolton, quietly. “ Is it from Paris ? ” 
 
 “Oh, no,” replied the man. “I bought it about 
 three weeks ago of a lady who was leaving Baut- 
 zen, and who wished to dispose of it.” 
 
 “ Did she say why she wished to dispose of 
 it P ” said Bolton. 
 
 “Because it reminded her of a very sad epi- 
 sode in her life which she washed to forget.” 
 
 “ Good heavens!” said the Duke, in English, 
 “ it must have been Seringa,” 
 
 “ Have patience, your Grace,” said Bolton, 
 aside. “ What was the lady like ? ” 
 
 “ Of medium height, with a particularly good 
 figure, and dark hair and eyes.” 
 
 “That is Maillard,” exclaimed the Duke. 
 
 “ Are you aware, sir,” said Bolton, sternly, to the 
 jeweler, “ that this bracelet was stolen property ? ” 
 “ Certainly not, and I cannot believe it,” he re- 
 plied. “ The lady was beautifully dressed, and 
 although she spoke bad German, yet many En- 
 glish ladies do so,- and I thought nothing of it. Be- 
 sides, she left it with me for an hour to examine it 
 while she went shopping in the town. While she 
 was absent, my shop-boy told me that he had 
 seen her at the convent of the Sacre Coeur when 
 he was visiting his grandfather, the porter, there. 
 After hearing that, I bought it readily enough.” 
 “The Duchess may be at the convent now,” 
 said the excited Duke to Bolton. 
 
 “ One moment, your Grace,” said the detective. 
 “ You have altered this bracelet since you bought 
 it?” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” replied the now deeply offended 
 jeweler. “ I bought it in exactly its present condi- 
 tion.” 
 
86 A “ novel” novel. 
 
 “Never mind,” said the Duke; “ the wretched 
 girl probably had it altered somewhere else. What 
 we want to know is, where is the convent ? ” 
 
 The jeweler explained that it would take some 
 hours to drive to the convent, and, as it was already 
 very late, the Duke was obliged to smother his im- 
 patience, and wait till the morning for the expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 By Mrs . J ’ Alexander Kennedy . 
 
 “ Farewell, too— now at last— 
 
 Farewell, fair lily.” 
 
 In an abode so isolated, and where life was so 
 monotonous, as the Convent of the Sacre Coeur, on 
 those heights near Bautzen, the arrival of a guest 
 would have been at all times welcome ; and how 
 much more so when the guest was young, lovely, 
 and refined, as this fair woman, and also so touch- 
 ingly grateful for every attention or little kindness 
 shown to her; while the nuns felt that it was they 
 from whom thanks were due, in return for such an 
 object of interest in the “ daily round — the common 
 task.”* And especially was this the case with Soeur 
 Marie, who from the first had been the guest’s 
 most sympathetic and constant companion. The 
 sister had observed Seringa with as keen an eye as 
 Maillard herself, but from wholly different motives ; 
 her pure and unselfish nature could not bear to look 
 on suffering and not try to aid it, and from the first 
 she divined that their guest’s illness was due to 
 some grief which was crushing this gentle, sensitive 
 nature beneath its weight, and the kind nun longed 
 to know the cause, from no thought of vulgar curi- 
 osity, but that, if possible, balm might be found ; 
 and she prayed and hoped that the day would come 
 when their guest would gain confidence, and they 
 would take sweet counsel together. 
 
 More than once, when they had been alone, she 
 had thought Seringa was on the point of telling her 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 87 
 
 all. But no ! Beyond the fact that she was sep- 
 arated for ever ” from a husband whom she loved 
 with all her heart and soul, Sceur Marie had learnt 
 no more, and did not even know if the separation 
 had been by the dread hand of death or by sin ; but 
 of one thing* she felt assured — if by the latter, that 
 this g*entle creature had been sinned against, and 
 was not the sinner. And then Soeur Marie, who 
 had learnt the message of patience long, long ago, 
 crossed herself, and waited, knowing well that time 
 rarely keeps a secret. 
 
 Once, when they were seated in the sweet old 
 garden, now lovely in its glorious autumn tints, and 
 where the last rose of summer lingered in all its 
 hesbuty, seeing Serin g lost in thought in one of her 
 habitual sad reveries, ohe sister placed her arm lov- 
 ingly round her, saying, “ What sad thoughts are 
 shutting out the bright sunshine, dear? ” 
 
 “ The past,” with a sigh murmured Seringa. 
 
 “ Making yourself ill,” again with a reproachful 
 look said Marie, “ when the good Mother and we 
 are all longing to see the roses on your cheek once 
 again.” 
 
 “ It matters little whether I am ill or well. 
 Amongst all the poor and suffering people you tend 
 so lovingly you will not find a person who has so 
 little hope, or a person who has so little to live for, 
 or one who would so gladly die.” 
 
 Soeur Marie looked very grave as she answered 
 gently, “ Look around, dear, and open your eyes. 
 At your age you can know little of life or of God's 
 providence. We have all cause for thankfulness in 
 our past, our present, and eternity is long.” 
 
 “ Ah ! dear sister,” said Seringa, “ I daresay 
 that you are right. I am ungrateful — wicked, 
 what you will, but I can't help it ; you cannot un- 
 derstand ; for me to live as I am is worse than 
 death. Oh ! if I could open lips and tell you 
 ali,” and with these words Seringa got up, broke 
 what remained of a beautiful rose in her hand, and 
 passed quickly from the garden into the house. The 
 
88 A “ novel” novel. 
 
 good sister sighed as she looked after her, and felt 
 that a golden opportunity had been broken also. 
 
 In a situation in any way resembling Seringa’s, 
 in which all communication with friends is impos- 
 sible, the time seems supernaturally long, and it 
 seemed to her as if she had lived years instead of 
 weeks in this cloister. Except that exit from the 
 convent was forbidden without special permission 
 from the Superior, a privilege that Seringa had not 
 the slightest desire to obtain, she was allowed per- 
 fect freedom within the walls, and could employ her 
 hours as she pleased in all respects. Sometimes she 
 would go with Soeur Marie to the little chapel and 
 listen to the simple homilies of the grave old Cure, 
 and the words, an echo of those she had often heard 
 in other days, seemed now in her desolation fraught 
 with a new meaning, as he spoke of the sorrows of 
 man, and the brief time in which he will have to 
 endure them, and of the beautiful city (the light of 
 which seemed already to shine on his homely and 
 careworn face — making it beautiful) to which the 
 Si pilgrims of the night ” are ‘journeying. 
 
 Seringa felt as if she were no longer the same 
 person who, a few months ago, had been a “ belle ” 
 in one of the greatest capitals of the world, and her 
 life in the Cistercian nunnery moved on as in a 
 dream. 
 
 One morning, taking her accustomed walk in 
 the sweet old garden, Seringa was surprised to see 
 Sceur Marie approaching her with an unusual ap- 
 pearance of excitement on her placid countenance, 
 and she informed Seringa that her presence was re- 
 quired in the visitors’ room immediately, and that 
 the Mother was awaiting her there. 
 
 “ What for? ” inquired Seringa, startled. 
 
 “ Well, I think,” answered the sister, “ that the 
 Herr Dallas is there ; at least, I caught sight of a 
 gentleman who much resembled him.” She said all 
 this in a faltering way, for she intuitively felt that 
 there was’ no love lost between this father and 
 daughter, and also greatly feared, from what she 
 
A “NOVEL.” NOVEL. ' 89 
 
 had overheard, that he had come to take her loved 
 friend away from them. 
 
 But on seeing Seringa’s frightened face on hear- 
 ing of his arrival, she said nothing of this, and 
 merely added that there was nothing to fear, that 
 the Mother was there to arrange all, and the saints 
 would protect her. 
 
 Seringa followed Sceur Marie into the house with 
 a sinking heart, feeling that this unlooked-for visit 
 boded evil. 
 
 The room reserved for visitors and official visits 
 was not large, but presented a striking and quaint 
 interior. It was paneled with oak, black with age ; 
 and all the furniture was of the same black oak, 
 curiously carved, and polished until it shone again. 
 There were a few religious prints on the walls, and 
 a case containing books of a devotional character. 
 In the center of this room was a large square tal , 
 on which stood a vase containing a few bright au- 
 tumn flowers, giving the one spot of life and color 
 that was wanting to complete the quaint beauty of 
 the room. 
 
 Here, seated in one of the high-backed chairs. 
 Seringa saw her father, and at the sight of his 
 dark, unsympathetic face, associated in her mind 
 with so many painful memories, she felt as if she 
 were about to faint, and the Mother, seeing her 
 pallor, hastily guided her to a chair. 
 
 “ Voila, Monsieur ! I told you that your daugh- 
 ter was not yet strong enough for sudden excite- 
 ments.” 
 
 Captain Dallas bowed gravely and ceremoni- 
 ously to the Mother, and regretted he had been 
 unable to prepare his dear daughter for his visit, 
 but his business with her was most unexpected and 
 most important, and he begged permission for a 
 few moments’ conversation alone with his child. 
 
 As soon as the Mother with Sceur Marie had left 
 the room, Seringa, who had somewhat recovered 
 from her surprise, said, “Tell me why you are 
 
90 
 
 A “novel,” novel. 
 
 here. I thought I had at least found peace, as fai 
 as it ever can be mine in this world.” 
 
 “ Captain Dallas ” walked across the room and 
 seated himself beside her, fixing his eyes solemnly 
 upon her. 
 
 “Is anything the matter?” Seringa faintly 
 asked. 
 
 “ Yes,” replied her father, with his resolute 
 eyes still fixed upon her— “ illness.” 
 
 “Merciful heavens! ” cried Seringa. “ Who— 
 what do you mean — of whom are you talking? ” 
 
 “ Of the Duke of Mowbray,” her father an- 
 swered. 
 
 “The Duke of Mowbray, my husband, my 
 lover ! ” Seringa gasped, white as ashes ; “ is he — 
 is he gone f ” she faintly asked. 
 
 “ No,” replied her father, “ but he is in danger, 
 and if you wish to see him you must come with me 
 at once ! ” s 
 
 “ With you ! to see the Duke of Mowbray ? ” 
 said Seringa, with an incredulous look; for, recov- 
 ering somewhat from her first surprise, she knew ! 
 full well that there was no trusting this smooth 
 tongue. “ Why, you do not know him ; you have 
 never even seen him J ” 
 
 “ Strange events have occurred since you and I 
 met last, Seringa. Not only do I know the Duke : 
 of Mowbray, but I saw him not a few hours ago ! j 
 But there is no time to be lost if you mean to ac- 
 company me to see him, or you may be too late 1 
 I here will be time enough to talk en route. Will 
 you come ? ” 1 
 
 “ Where?” 
 
 “ To Dresden.” 
 
 “Dresden?” repeated Seringa, mechanically, 
 and still incredulous. 
 
 “Yes; and to prove the truth of what I am 
 telling you, look here,” and he drew from his pocket 
 a copy of a Dresden daily paper and pointed to a 
 paragraph. 
 
 Seringa took the paper and endeavored to read, 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 91 
 
 but slie was so agitated and trembling that the 
 words seemed to dance before her eyes. But at 
 last she read it, and found it was merely an ac- 
 count of the arrival of visitors at the Hotel Vic- 
 toria, Dresden, amongst which were noted the 
 “Duke of Mowbray and suite, Angleterre,” which 
 so far confirmed the assertions of her father as to 
 the Duke’s whereabouts, and at this moment he 
 said, “ If you have any further doubts of my disin- 
 terestedness, look here ! ” and he held up what ap- 
 peared to Seringa to be the ring that she had sent to 
 the Duke by Bolton ! 
 
 At seeing this token she started up, staring at 
 it wildty, knowing full well that the Duke would 
 never have parted with it except under extraor- 
 dinary circumstances. 
 
 Then begging her father to tell her all — “ What 
 is it ? what is it ? Is the danger great ? Oh ! my 
 darlin.^, my darling ! ” 
 
 “ Compose yourself,” said her father, in stern, 
 measured accents ; and poor Seringa felt paralyzed 
 under his glance. “ If you wish to accompany me 
 you can do so at once. I have made all arrange- 
 ments for the journey, and I have a carriage in 
 waiting.” 
 
 Seringa stood motionless for a moment, making 
 a tremendous effort to master her emotions, and 
 then turning to her father, said, “ Take me to him; 
 only take me to him ! ” 
 
 The Mother Superior, who entered the room at 
 this moment, heard Seringa’s last words, and stood 
 looking on helpless and perplexed. How could she 
 prevent this unhappy girl being taken from her, as 
 she felt no faith in this father’s love ? But she was 
 powerless. 
 
 Within half-an-hour Seringa found herself sit- 
 ting in a carriage beside her father, and with 
 Maillard sitting opposite, the latter’s face smirking 
 with the utmost expression of content at this es- 
 cape. 
 
 . The Mother and the sorrowful group of sisters 
 
92 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 stood within the great entrance gate waving their 
 adieux, amid fast falling tears and prayers for 
 the safety and return of this loved creature. 
 
 As the carriage drove away from the convent 
 a mist was spreading over the surrounding hills, 
 and it seemed to Seringa prophetic of her own 
 future of gloom and uncertainty. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Those were not the only visitors that day. But 
 a few hours had elapsed when the Mother Supe- 
 rior was informed that three English gentlemen 
 wished to speak with her on important business. 
 
 In the little room, where so recently she had 
 spoken with the Duchess and her father, she found 
 her new visitors — one of them of distinguished ap- 
 pearance, but gaunt and anxious-looking, who in- 
 troduced himself as “ Lord Mowbray,” and, giving 
 a description of their late guest, inquired with a 
 wild, yearning look in his eyes, if the lady was still ; 
 in the convent. 
 
 Clasping her hands Avith a muttered prayer, the : 
 Mother replied, “Alas! alas! she left this morn-- 
 ing with her father.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 By Miss Ethel Mackenzie. 
 
 As THE carriage containing “ Captain Dallas ” j 
 and his daughter drove through the lodge gates, 
 Seringa raised herself and looked back once more at 
 the kind sisters who had done all they could to help J 
 her in her hour of sorrow. Then sinking down once 
 more she covered her face with her hands, crying, 
 
 “ My God, only let me see him alive ! ” 
 
 Lord de Yere, leaning back in his own corner, 
 took out a newspaper to while away the time. After 
 perhaps half an hour, the Duchess turned to him 
 and said, “ Tell me all ; is there no hope ? And j 
 how did you come to see him ? ” 
 
 He looked at her strangely for a moment, and 
 she even fancied that this cold, heartless, wicked 
 
A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 93 
 
 man seemed to be moved to pity. “ You will know 
 all when we arrive at Dresden; till then I will tell 
 you nothing.” 
 
 “ But, at least, give me my ring, that I may 
 have something that belonged to him.” 
 
 Lord de Yere hesitated a moment, and then, 
 taking the ring from his waistcoat pocket, placed it 
 in her hands. 
 
 Seringa looked at it lovingly for a moment, and 
 was about to raise it to her lips, when, wuth a great 
 cry, she tried to rise from her seat and open the 
 door. “ What have you done ? The ring ; it is not 
 mine. Let me out. Oh, why did I ever believe 
 you ? ” 
 
 Lord de Yere caught her by the arm, and forced 
 her back into her place again. 
 
 “ What folly is this ? Not your ring ? ” 
 
 “ No, no. I should know mine anywhere. This 
 is like it, but I could never mistake it. Tell me, I 
 beseech you, what it all means ! ” 
 
 “ It means that I am not such a fool as you 
 think, and by fair means or foul I will keep you 
 till you do my bidding. Had I left you but one 
 hour more at the convent the Duke would have 
 
 been there. I ” But looking round he saw 
 
 that his daughter had fainted, and he relapsed 
 once more into silence, leaving Maillard to revive 
 her mistress as best she could. Had Seringa been 
 more alive to what was passing she would have 
 noticed that they had some time since left the 
 high road, and were no longer going towards 
 Dresden. 
 
 The Duchess’s faint proved long, and some hour 
 or more elapsed before she recovered consciousness, 
 only to find that the carriage was driving rapidly 
 through a thick wood. 
 
 Presently it drew up before a long, low T house, 
 and her father alighted and half carried her into 
 the house, and placed her on a sofa in the salon , 
 then left her alone. Then he and Maillard dis- 
 cussed the arrangement of the luggage. Seringa 
 
94 A “novel” novel. 
 
 lay back wearily, wondering what was now going 
 to happen to her, when the door re-opened, and a 
 German waiting-maid entered, bearing a tea-tray, 
 which she placed on a small table near the sofa. 
 
 “ My lady must want some refreshment after 
 her long drive. Shall I pour out a cup of tea ? ” 
 The invalid started up. Could it be — yes, 
 surely — “ Gretchen ! ” 
 
 The maid laid her finger on her lips. “Say 
 not a word, dear lady. They think I am their 
 friend. I will guard you well.” Then, as the door 
 opened to admit Lord de Yere : “ Madame had 
 
 better drink her tea, or she will be ill. Do I not 
 say truly, monsieur ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, truly; bub leave us now, and see we are 
 not disturbed.” He then seated himself beside his 
 daughter, and, after a few seconds, began: 
 
 “ I would willingly have left you at the convent, 
 bub, as you must see, it was impossible. I should ! 
 think by this time you were almost tired of your 
 present life— a life which at any moment you can , 
 end by doing my will. But I warn you I am very 
 patient, and I flatter myself,” he added, with a 
 smile, “ far more capable of eluding any number of 
 detectives — professional or amateur — than they are 
 of trapping me. Here I fancy thej r will not find 
 you, and I have engaged Gretchen to see to all 
 household work. Maillard also will remain, and if 
 at any time you want me she will communicate 
 with me. The only check I wish to place on your 
 liberty is that if you wish to walk farther than the 
 garden, one of the two I have named shall go with 
 you. I can trust them,” he added, significantly. 
 
 “ Am I, then, a prisoner here ? At least tell me 
 where I am, and what of my husband ? ” 
 
 “ As well as ever he was, I fancy. At least he 
 was this morning. This is the White House, but 
 where, matters not. If you don’t know, there is 
 no fear of your letting it out. Women’s tongues 
 cannot be relied on. And now I must go, and I 
 trust that all will be made comfortable for you. 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 95 
 
 Believe me, I have no wish to detain you longer 
 than my own safety demands.” 
 
 The Duchess said never a word ; a new hope 
 had entered her soul, and she could bear all now. 
 Gretchen was to be trusted, she felt sure ; she was 
 no longer without a friend ; and as the sound of 
 the wheels of Lord de Vere’s carriage died away 
 in the distance, she turned her head, and, tired 
 out with all she had gone through, fell asleep. It 
 was late when she awoke, refreshed, and after 
 making a pretense of eating the supper put before 
 her, she allowed Maillard to conduct her upstairs 
 to bed, where sleep once more came to her aid. 
 
 How long she slept she knew not — but she 
 awoke with a start to hear a voice whispering in 
 her ear : “ Keep quiet, my lady, and listen to 
 me. Maillard sleeps, a little chloral in her wine at 
 supper has settled that, but I will not light a 
 lamp, for fear; we know not what dangers sur- 
 round us. Tell me quick where your husband is, 
 and if you wish him to know where you are.” 
 
 Happily, Seringa had taken good note of the 
 hotel mentioned in the Dresden paper, and told 
 Gretchen all she knew, adding that she wished her 
 husband to know at once where she was. Gretchen 
 then said : 
 
 “ To-morrow a letter will arrive from my 
 mother, who will be ill, and I will ask Maillard for 
 a day’s holiday. I will insist. Dresden will do as 
 well as Berlin. I will be absent one night. The 
 day after to-morrow, a little more chloral will do 
 no harm, and then all will be easy.” 
 
 The Duchess sat up in bed, and putting her arms 
 round the girl’s neck, cried like a child. Gretchen 
 comforted her, and as the first faint streaks of 
 dawn appeared, se ing that her mistress once 
 more slept, she crept back to her own room for 
 fear of arousing the suspicion of Maillard. Next 
 day Maillard was very ill-tempered, and informed 
 her mistress that Gretchen’s mother was ill and 
 had summoned her daughter, and, added she, “If 
 
96 A “NOVEL” novel. 
 
 the letter had not been from the cure, I should no 
 let her go ; these peasants will do anything- for j 
 holiday.” ° 
 
 How long- the day seemed ! Sering-a used to say 
 in looking* back on that day, that she seemed tc 
 have lived a year, and have prayed as many pray 
 er^ as a hermit who had lived for a century in th( 
 desert. Late in the afternoon of the following da\ 
 G-retchen arrived, but even then it was some time 
 before she saw the Duchess. By supper time the 
 latter was so impatient that she could hardly con- 
 tain herself. Gretchen looked as placid as ever, 
 and only once- during the meal, when she passed 
 near her lady’s chair and Maillard had left the next 
 room and gone upstairs, did she find a moment to 
 whisper, “ All is well so far.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV k 
 
 By Mrs . Vallance . 
 
 “ What will not woman, gentle woman, dare 
 When strong affection stirs her spirit np P ”—Madoc. - 
 
 As THE Duke of Mowbray returned with his 
 friends from his interview with the Mother Superior 
 in the Convent of the Sacre Coeur, from whom they 
 learnt Lord de Vere’s latest treachery to the Duch- 
 ess, they were occupied in considering what steps 
 they should next pursue. 
 
 They had gained no information as to where-! 
 that bad man had taken his daughter, except his 
 statement to the Mother Superior, when he placed 
 Seringa under her care, that he was on his way' 
 into Saxon Switzerland. They were inclined to 
 think that he had carried that intention into effect. 
 
 * 14 . * e ^ ,lke ex P r essed the opinion, which he had 
 felt from the first, that detectives were a horrible 
 race. 
 
 "What,” he exclaimed, “have they done for 
 me! I his Englishman has not helped me much; 
 he has allowed himself to be outwitted on each oc- 
 casion, and has been entirely dependent on his for- 
 
A “novel” novel. 97 
 
 eign confreres . We should have done bettor if we 
 had depended on our own discretion.” 
 
 “ My dear friend,” said Lyndhurst, “ I think 
 ,you are a little unjust to Bolton. Had he not char- 
 tered the engine, we should not have known where 
 the Duchess was carried out of England ; he has 
 been unfortunate, it is true, but I believe he has 
 done his best.” 
 
 “ His best to destroy my faith in the purest life 
 that has ever been led. But perhaps he meant well 
 — although Lady Allonby thinks, and I agree with 
 her, that he drove Lord de Yere to take his daugh- 
 ter out of England.” 
 
 “ How so ? ” 
 
 “ By his premature questions put to the woman 
 Maillard, he raised her suspicions, and lost Cecilia 
 the opportunity to enlist her services for us instead 
 of against us. She has known Maillard as long as 
 she has my wife, and. might have influenced her in 
 time; but it is clear they took fright and bolted. 
 I wish Cecilia were here now ; her wit is better 
 than that of a dozen detectives.” 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 Surely the spirits had been at work, for as they 
 alighted at the hotel, they were informed that a 
 lady and gentleman had arrived from England, and 
 were aw T aiting them in the Duke’s rooms. 
 
 Hurrying up the stairs, they were surprised and 
 delighted to see seated there Lord and Lady Allonby. 
 
 “ This is an immediate answer to my wish ; you 
 must have been inspired, Cecilia, to come just when 
 I wanted you.” 
 
 “ I could not rest after your departure ; waiting 
 for the post is tedious, so 1 thought I should prefer 
 being on the spot. I am glad to see you look so 
 much better, notwithstanding your trouble. Now, 
 Carrol, tell me everything from the beginning. 
 Your letters are so confusing; I could not make 
 out about the bracelet.” 
 
 A long conversation ensued ; at its close, Lady 
 Allonby said : 
 
98 A “ novel” novel. 
 
 “ An idea has occurred to me — Lord de Yere 
 must have discovered your presence here through 
 the newspapers. If I am to he of any use to you, 
 he must not know of my arrival, so we , 55 looking* 
 towards her husband, “ will be plain Mr. and Mrs. 
 Allen. Our names are not yet in the visitors’ book ; 
 there is only to caution the servants, who, fortu- 
 nately, are of the old school and can be thoroughly 
 depended on. I have a plan ; the first step towards 
 carrying it out is to find out where Seringa is now. 
 To effect that we must know if she was removed in 
 a hired or a private vehicle.” 
 
 “ I can supply that information,” said Tredegar. 
 “ The portress at the convent told me it was a hired 
 one.” 
 
 “That’s good. Then it will not be so difficult 
 to learn where she is. I daresay the landlord of 
 this hotel can tell you where the principal stables 
 for hire are to be found. See* what you can do. It 
 is too late to-night to take more active steps than 
 these. One thing more I would suggest, that we 
 keep this plan quite to ourselves; and whatever 
 you do, remember not to betray my husband’s and 
 my presence in Dresden. No detective shall mar 
 my plot. To-morrow, who knows what may hap- 
 pen ? ” 
 
 Ah ! who does know how near to, or how far we 
 are, from the fulfillment of our wishes ? 
 
 In the present case things seemed to work just 
 as Lady Allonby wished. 
 
 On the morrow, when Gretchen presented her- 
 self at the Victoria Hotel, she was shown into Mrs. 
 Alleq’s presence. 
 
 After some preamble, in which she expressed a 
 wish to see the Duke of Mowbray, she was made to 
 understand that the lady before her was the Duke’s 
 sister, and the Duchess’s dearest friend. Satisfied 
 of this at last, she told Mrs. Allen what trouble 
 the Duchess was in. Under pretense of being taken 
 to see her husband, whom she believed to be dying, 
 she had been deco3 r ed to the White House, where 
 
A “ novel ’ 7 novel. 
 
 99 
 
 she was virtually a prisoner. She also told Mrs. 
 Allen she had got leave of absence to go on a pre- 
 tended visit to her sick mother, but really to see 
 the Duke, 
 
 Having finished her tale, she looked steadily at 
 Mrs. Allen, as if she would read in her face if she 
 were capable of helping to release the dear sweet 
 lady in whom she took so much interest. 
 
 “1 don’t think, Madam,” she said, “that there 
 will be any chance of the Duke helping his lady at 
 present ; we must be patient. Captain Dallas has 
 given such strict orders that no visitors are to be 
 allowed there, and Maillard is, I believe, afraid of 
 him, or she is paid too well to betray him, for he 
 puts unbounded faith in her ; but I am willing to 
 help her. X am sure she will not get away from 
 the White House without my assistance; it will 
 require cunning to match the Captain. If, lady, 
 you will excuse me, X think I see a way ; but 
 
 ” and Gretchen looked carefully round to see 
 
 if by any chance they could be overheard. Lady 
 Allonby walked to the door to see if they were 
 alone, but to make assurance doubly sure, she took 
 Gretchen into her own room, where the rest of 
 their conversation was carried on in whispers. 
 
 Soon after, when Gretchen was saying a last 
 few words before leaving the hotel, the Duke of 
 Mowbray returned, and was astonished at the tale 
 his sister had to tell, which she ended by saying : 
 “It was a most fortunate chance which inspired 
 me to come here, Carrol, to your assistance. I 
 feel sure without me just at this crisis you would 
 have made a dreadful muddle of the whole affair— 
 but we shall see. What does the poet say ? — 
 
 ‘ If the heart of man is depress’d with care, 
 
 The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.’ 
 
 Let us hope it will be so now, my dear brother. X 
 bid you hope that before long Seringa will be re» 
 stored to you, and all the dreadful past be really 
 so, and forgotten.” 
 
100 
 
 'novel” novel. 
 
 • i. G ^ tchen ’ s G vv meaning 1 words infused new lift 
 into bennga, but she was careful to disg-uise he 
 happiness before Maillard, who, as usual, took car< 
 10 ber charge carefully disposed of for th< 
 night before she proceeded to enjoy herself with hei 
 ■nightly glass and yellow-backed novel 
 
 Gretchen did not this time take liberties witl 
 the former, she rightly conjectured it better tc 
 leave that performance for another occasion. Sc 
 
 c Duchess had to be content with those few words 
 and something else which excited her surprise and 
 raised her hopes. 
 
 £mi^! i ^ ard undressed ber mistress, she said : 
 
 1 hat German girl has brought a message from 
 her mother, who says she cannot be left any longer 
 ab j ne ,’ sbe , 1S subject to fits, and although she can 
 get about, is not in a state to be left ; but she offers 
 to come here and help in the kitchen, and I must 
 either have her or let Gretchen go, which would 
 be very inconvenient. Gretchen says her mother 
 will not trouble anjmne but her, so if your Grace 
 approves I think she had better come. I could not 
 do all the work of this large house alone ; I will 
 write to Lord de V ere, and he can see the old woman 
 and decide.” 
 
 , , da T S Maillard informed her mistress 
 that the oid woman had come. “ But, as usual, I 
 ha ve been taken in ; she is too infirm to give much 
 help, and half Gretchen’s time will be taken up in 
 waiting on her, but we could not spare Gretchen.; 
 It your Grace would only be guided by me, and 
 comply with the Earl’s wishes, we might all go back 
 to England.” 
 
 “ How dare you make such a proposition to me ? 
 x ou forget yourself, Maillard ! I never would have 
 believed, after all I have done for you, that you 
 would have been so treacherous as to have betrayed 
 me as you have done, or have lent yourself td a de- 
 grading falsehood. For it is one, is it not? Mail- 
 lard ! by the remembrance of past days, when you 
 as a village girl served me in my old home, tell me 
 
A “novel” novel. 
 
 101 
 
 the truth. I am in your power, but if I were free, I 
 would not injure you, and I could benefit you a 
 o-reat deal better than my father can. Help to 
 save me now, and I will forgive your past treat- 
 ment of me.” She looked with her appealing eyes 
 fixed on Maillard’s face. , , , . 
 
 ' The maid returned her mistress s look for a mo- 
 ment. At the remembrance of her girlhood a tear 
 dimmed her eye, but it was quickly brushed away 
 as a much later remembrance came to her mind. 
 
 She replied : J , . , T , a • 
 
 (C I am not so hard as you think, Lady beringa. 
 You have been a good mistress to me, and I would 
 serve you to the utmost of my ability. But although 
 (as you say) you could reward me if you were free, 
 there is a' thing which he can do over which you 
 have no control. I hate him ! ” she exclaimed, 
 with sudden passion. “ I have more need to do so 
 than you have. He can only hurt you for a time ; 
 me he can injure forever. Nay, my very life is in 
 his hands. So you see, for my self-defense, I must 
 obey his orders where you are concerned.” 
 
 She stood back and looked at the "Duchess’s 
 blanched cheeks, for Seringa was astonished out of 
 her usual self-possession. 
 
 “ Poor woman,” she sobbed, believing implicitly 
 every word Maillard had said, although it was 
 doubtful if she had spoken the unvarnished truth. 
 “ I pity you, and will try to think leniently of your 
 actions.” With these words she dismissed her. 
 
 On the following morning Maillard told the 
 Duchess it. was necessary for her to go to the 
 nearest village to make some purchases. In a 
 deprecatory way she said, as she was leaving : 
 
 “ You know my lord’s orders; you are free to 
 walk in the garden. I do not suppose you can 
 escape through these mountains with only a stupid 
 girl and helpless old woman, and no vehicle ; so I 
 think I may leave you safely.” 
 
 “ You are right, Maillard. I have not the 
 opportunity, if I have the will, to escape.” 
 
102 
 
 A 
 
 “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 About an hour later, Seringa (oblivious of the 
 garden) sat thinking of her lonely position. Thai 
 she, the daughter of an earl, allied to one of tin 
 noblest of England's old families, should be a pris- 
 oner, and her maid her jailor— she sighed deeply as 
 she thought on her sad fate, which should have 
 been so fair. The door opened softly, and Gretchen 
 came in. 
 
 “ Oh, my dear lady, how sad you look. Pardon 
 my intrusion. I came to cheer you a little. You 
 must not despair; help may be nearer than you 
 think. My mother has bid me ask if she may pay 
 her respects to you, she does so sympathize with 
 you.” 
 
 Seringa, always kindness itself, gave permission. 
 Gretchen went away and presently returned, lead- 
 ing in her infirm old mother, whose wrinkled face 
 and slow movements showed her weakness. Seringa; 
 rose to assist the worthy dame to a seat, when a 
 soft voice fell in liquid accents on her ear; she 
 started back when the old lady said : t 
 
 ‘‘ l have found you then at last, my darling. 
 Why, oh why, did you not confide in me ? ” 
 
 ’ Unutterably amazed, Seringa stared at her, 
 then at Gretchen’s smiling face. 
 
 “ Is it possible ? Who are you ? ” 
 
 “See!” and her visitor, “to the delight of 
 Gretchen, removed her glasses and wig of gray 
 hair with the cap, and Seringa saw, through her! 
 cleverly painted face, it was indeed her dear friend 
 Gecilia. She threw herself, overcome with joy, into 
 the arms of Lady Allonby ; they forgot everything 
 but their delight at being once more together. 
 
 Gretchen it was who recalled them to the pres- 
 ent and danger. 
 
 “ Pra y restore the wig and cap, for fear of a 
 surprise. I will leave my mother with you, dear 
 lady, for a time,” as with a smiling face she left 
 them. 
 
 Ha \ ing somewhat recovered from her surprise,'?! 
 Seringa inspected her friend. “ It is wonderful ! I 
 
A “NOVEL” NOVEL. 103 
 
 do not believe even the Earl himself would know 
 
 ^ But Lady Allonby had much to hear and to say. 
 She reminded the Duchess that they had no time to 
 
 lose. _ , . , 
 
 “Listen attentively, whilo I explain my plan 
 before that wretched woman returns.” 
 
 They were for an hour so deeply engaged that 
 they did not hear carriage wheels, and were startled 
 at the sound of hurried steps. Gretchen came in, 
 saying in a loud, pointed voice, “ The Earl, my 
 lady,” and then, “ Come, mother, I’m sure you must 
 have tired my lady,” and turning to the Earl, who 
 had followed her : 
 
 “ This is mother, whom you were so good as to 
 allow me to have here; she has been trying to 
 interest my lady in our troubles.” 
 
 She led the feeble old woman from the room, 
 Lord de Yere looking first at his daughter’s white 
 face, and then impatiently at the old frau’s slow 
 progress out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 By Miss Minnie Laud. 
 
 No sooner had the door closed on Gretchen and 
 her “ mother ” than Lord de Yere turned, and look- 
 ing closely at his daughter, noted her pallor and 
 agitation. . 
 
 “ Fool that I am ! ” he muttered to himself-. 
 “ Maillard was right after all ; there is some mys- 
 tery about this Old hag Gretchen calls ‘ mother.’ ” 
 Seringa, eager to again see her sister-in-law, 
 was gliding from the room, when Lord de Yere, in 
 a savage tone, ordered her to remain where she was 
 till dinner-time ; then, flinging himself into a chair, 
 soon became lost in deep meditation. Once only 
 did the frightened woman break the terrible si- 
 lence. 
 
 “ Father, dear, will you let me go to my own 
 room ? I will not leave it unless you wish. ” 
 
104 A “NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 “Have I not already told you my wishes ?” 
 was the angry reply. “ ‘ Father, dear ! ’ hah ! 
 Much filial love occupies your heart, my daughter, 
 else would you think no sacrifice too great to 
 guard your father’s life from the vengeance of a 
 villain.” 
 
 “Father, you forget the nature of the sacrifice | 
 - — separation from my own loved husband. Ah ! 
 why not trust him ? He is noble and good, aiid 
 would protect you — his wife’s father — from the j 
 hand of the man that, as you say, seeks your life, ] 
 even though that man be his honored friend.” 
 
 “You talk like a baby, Seringa. ‘ Wife’s | 
 father ! ’ As if any man cared one jot what be- 
 came of his wife’s father, as long as he got the ; 
 biggest share of the father’s flesh-pots. See, here 1 
 comes Maillard ; now go with her and dress for | 
 dinner. To-day it is to be served early, at five 
 o’clock.” 
 
 “ My lord,” said Maillard, “ the cook and house- 
 maid say you have given them leave to go to 
 Brocken Fair. Is it wise, think you, for there will 
 be only Gretchen, the old woman and myself in the 
 house ? ” 
 
 “What! is the brave Maillard showing the 
 white feather? Too soon, my girl, too soon.” And 
 the Earl, with a derisive laugh, motioned the two 
 women away. 
 
 “Maillard, what has come over my father?” • 
 cried Seringa, as they went to the chamber. “I 
 cannot understand him. He has grown so heart- 
 less and so reckless that I— may God forgive me — 
 
 I, his child, am beginning to hate him.” 
 
 “ Well, my lady, you had better destroy such 
 feelings at once. Let me warn you — hatred shown 
 towards Lord de Vere bodes ill for all of us. There 
 goes the dinner-bell; come, take my arm to the 
 dining-room.” 
 
 On entering they found the Earl already seated 
 at the table ; the dinner was a marvel in speed, ; 
 neither father nor daughter showing any inclina- & 
 
A 
 
 NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 105 
 
 ( ( 
 
 ?? 
 
 tion to eat. Seringa gulped down a large glass of 
 claret standing by her plate, and then she noticed 
 that Lord de Yere seemed bent on draining all the 
 wine-bottles at hand ; his thirst appeared insa- 
 tiable. 
 
 Presently Maiilard took Seringa by the arm and 
 said, “ My lady, had you not better come to your 
 room ? You look white and ill.” 
 
 “ Not ill, Maiilard. Only tired, so very tired. 
 Ask Gretchen to come to me.” 
 
 “ Do nothing of the kind,” interposed the Earl; 
 “and, Maiilard, the instant your mistress is in bed, 
 return to this room.” 
 
 “ Yes, my lord,” was the woman’s reply, as she 
 carried the now unconscious form of Seringa from 
 the room. 
 
 “ What does this mean, I wonder? ” she mut- 
 tered, as she quickly prepared her mistress for bed. 
 “ There is some devil’s work to be done, or he 
 wouldn’t have drugged her; but I’ll tell him 
 straight that he must not expect Joan Maiilard to 
 make her soul as black as his own.” 
 
 Having secured the windows, and lowered the 
 lights, Maiilard left the chamber, and went to the 
 kitchen to tell Gretchen the Duchess must not be 
 disturbed. She pushed open the door, and then, 
 with a wild scream, fled towards the dining-room. 
 Alarmed by the noise, the Earl met her at the 
 door. 
 
 “ What have you done ? ” what have you done ? ” 
 shrieked the terrified woman. “ Gretchen and her 
 mother are lying dead on the floor.” 
 
 “Don’t be a fool, Maiilard; they are no more 
 dead than- Seringa ; their dinner wine had a draught 
 in it that will keep them sleeping till morning. By 
 and by you will have to put the two creatures to 
 bed, and then, to-morrow, you must ridicule them 
 into believing that this night’s work was a dream, 
 and that they went to their rest like rational crea- 
 tures, at the usual time. Lock the door, and sit 
 down and listen to me.” 
 
106 A “novel” novel. 
 
 Silently, the woman obeyed, when the Earl 
 
 seemed to throw off all reserve, and turned to Mail- 1 
 lard , saying-, in a loud and excited tone : 
 
 “ Hark you, girl ; I’m about to play a last and 
 most desperate card, for the blood-hounds have got ! 
 me into a corner, from which I cannot escape ; and j 
 you, Joan Maillard, must stand by me and not | 
 flinch. You know the old story, of how Lord de \ 
 Vere, in his native village, had a double in the per- 
 son of Frank Moray, the farmer’s son : so alike 
 were they, that once when, in boyish fun, they j 
 
 dressed as plowboys, and asked Mrs. Moray to ] 
 
 identify her own child, she could only do so after * 
 finding Lord de Yere’s birth-mark, a tiny blood-red 
 heart on the nape of his neck. The peer and the j 
 farmer’s son were both educated by the self-same ] 
 tutor, and when they grew to manhood, both to- 1 
 gether went on a visit to Australia, their young | 
 wives, soon to become mothers, remaining at | 
 home.” 
 
 At this point the Earl ceased his narrative to 
 say : j 
 
 “ Here, Maillard, drink this wine, and don’t look 1 
 like a petrified ghost.” Then he continued : “ You 
 also remember that Frank Maillard, in a drunken 
 fit, when Lord de Yere was standing by, murdered 
 a squatter, and then went mad. On Lord de Yere’s 
 return to England, he told your mother the awful 
 news which killed her— that her handsome hus- 
 band, Frank Moray, would drag out the remainder : 
 of his life as a criminal lunatic in Australia.” 
 
 “ Too well, too well I remember all this Lord 
 de Yere,” broke in Maillard. “ Is not the knowl-| 
 edge that you hold a sword over my poor husband’s 
 head torture enough ? Then why should you add \ 
 to my misery by raking up the ghost of my dead ■ 
 father’s crime ? ” 
 
 “ He is not dead, Joan Maillard ; he’s here be- : 
 fore you. Be eas t y, I am not mad. Look at my .1 
 neck, do you see the red heart, girl ? No, for ’twas 
 never there; can’t you understand ? I, girl, lam 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 10 
 
 Frank Moray, the murderer; Lord de Yere is th» 
 lunatic prisoner in Australia ; and you, Joan Mail 
 lard, are my own flesh and blood. Seringa, Duch 
 ess of Mowbra 3 r , is naught to me.” 
 
 “Father, my father ! ” cried Maillard, pressing 
 her hands to her head. “Oh, ’tis hard to believe 
 but if you are my father, why not fly to some dis 
 tant land at once, and leave the Duchess free to d< 
 as she pleases? Yet stay, no one knows you] 
 secret save myself; I will guard it well. Only lei 
 the Duchess return to- her husband, and all will bt 
 at peace once more.” 
 
 “ Listen, Maillard ! ” and her arm was grasped 
 as in a vice; “if Seringa goes to Mowbra} 7 , Fro 
 undone. That man, I swear, suspects something: 
 moreover, there was a rumor that he expected au 
 Australian friend, who was bent on fathoming some 
 great mystery. I’ve seen this friend, and his con- 
 versation savors too much of convicts and lunatics 
 to please me ; and when he heard I was Lord de 
 Yere, for an instant the fellow lost his tongue, and 
 then added : 
 
 “ ‘ A dear friend of mine bears a similar name — 
 Mr. de Vere; he will soon be in England, when 1 
 hope to introdue him to you.’ 
 
 “Joan Maillard, this expected De Yere is, 
 doubtless, the Earl ; the sight of the murder un- 4 
 hinged his reason, but only for a while. Fifteen 
 years after his condemnation I received information 
 that the prisoner was very popular, and much be- 
 loved; and, also, that he had become a rational 
 man, save for his delusion in calling himself Lord de 
 Yere. In all probability he has convinced those 
 about him that his so-called delusion is a reality, 
 and so he is coming to England to regain his own. 
 Let him strike at me if he will, but it shall be 
 through his daughter Seringa. The restoration of 
 Seringa shall be my passport to freedom and riches, 
 else shall she be dead to him, and to her proud hus- 
 band. Girl,” said Moray in a low tone, “ from one 
 of the walls in Seringa’s chamber is an entrance in- 
 
10.8 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 to a secret room unknown even to the owner of this 'I 
 house. It is comfortably furnished, and into it the 
 Duchess shall be carried to-night, and you. Mail- 
 lard, are to wait upon her. Come, ’tis already nine 
 o’clock ; in three hours the servants return, and in 
 the meantime there is much to do.” 
 
 “Father,” pleaded Maillard, “give up this 
 scheme. You yourself escape; for, should Earl 
 Mowbray and Lord de Yere discover this cham- 
 ber ” 
 
 “Have I not said,” angrily broke in Moray, - 
 “ that the owner of the house is ignorant of its 
 existence ? Then how should anyone else find it : 
 out ? ” - 
 
 Had Frank Moray but scanned the chronicles ■ 
 of the De Vere family, he would have been amazed 
 to read that this very house— the White House, ‘ 
 Brocken, near Dresden — had actually once been 
 owned by a Lord de Vere. 
 
 Seringa and all needful things were quickly 
 transferred into the secret chamber, and, in justice 
 to Maillard, it must be said that she truly pitied 3 
 her helpless young mistress. Then Gretchen and < 
 the “old woman” were carried to their rooms, | 
 and Maillard had scarcely got them into bed when 
 the servants returned from the fair. 
 
 The night passed, swiftly enough to some, but 1 
 to Maillard and her father each hour was in itself 
 a whole night. 
 
 “ Awake, awake, madam ! ” were the words that jj 
 roused Mrs. Allonby from her long slumber. Look- 1 
 ing up, she saw Gretchen wringing her hands and | 
 crying : 
 
 “Alas, alas ! the Duchess is not in her room, 
 nor in the house ! Maillard vows she was safe in 
 bed when she herself went to rest. I have been to 
 Lord de Yere, but he seems quite indifferent, f 
 Madam, what are we to do ? ” 
 
 Already Mrs. Allonby was hastily dressing. 
 
 “ I shall go back to the hotel at once ; Lord de - 
 Yere is at the bottom of this new piece of treachery. 
 
A “ novel” novel. 109 
 
 Think, Gretchen, we did not go to bed last night ; 
 after dinner, don*t you remember how sleepy we 
 both felt ? We never went to bed ourselves; that 
 villain drugged us, and then he and his accomplice, 
 Maillard, again carried off our darling. Something 
 must be done quickly by my husband and Earl 
 Mowbray. Tell the servants your mother has gone 
 home; they won’t trouble their heads about me. 
 Good-bye, Gretchen ; watch Maillard and Lord de 
 Yere with all your power, and pray for Seringa’s 
 safety, and that her guardian angel may direct us 
 in our search.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 By Miss Hilda Somers . 
 
 Lady Allonby procured a conveyance at the 
 nearest village, and with as little delay as possible 
 arrived at the hotel. On alighting she asked for 
 her maid, who at once recognized her mistress, and, 
 leading the way to Lady Allonby’s rooms, quickly 
 divested her of the disguise she had assumed while 
 playing the role of Gretchen’s mother. She learnt 
 to her horror and dismay that the Duke had left 
 suddenly that same morning, accompanied b\^ Lord 
 Allonby and the detective, who had called early, 
 and had held a lengthy interview with the Duke ; 
 they left no word as to when they intended to 
 return. 
 
 “True,” said Lady Allonby, “ he did not expect 
 me so soon ; but I wish to see him with as little 
 delay as possible, so let me know the moment they 
 are back.” 
 
 Lady Allonby mastered her anxiety and impa- 
 tience as best she could, making no remarks and 
 asking no questions that might throw light on the 
 last unexpected disappearance of Seringa. In deal- 
 ing with a man of Lord de Vere’s character more 
 than ordinary precaution was to be observed. She 
 told the maid to pack a small bag in readiness for 
 any moment it might be wanted. She then set her- 
 
110 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 self to the task of answering letters and making 
 every arrangement for an absence of some weeks. 
 She felt sure her husband and brother would be 
 home at latest in time for dinner. 
 
 About four o’clock she was roused from her work 
 by the welcome sound of a carriage drawing up be- 
 fore the door. Almost before she had time to get 
 out of the room she was confronted by her brother 
 and Lord AUonby. They started in undisguised 
 astonishment when they saw Lady Allonby. 
 
 “ Oh, Mowbray ! ” she cried, “ they have car- 
 ried poor Seringa off again ; but the most extraor- 
 dinary thing is that Lord de Yere and the woman 
 Maillard are still there, and they declare they know 
 nothing whatever about the matter, and, moreover, 
 they appear quite unconcerned. Gretchen and I 
 were drugged last night, and the other two ser- 
 vants were out, so there was the whole evening to 
 carry out any new plans*.” 
 
 “ Some new piece of devilment on the part of 
 Lord de Vere, as he calls himself,” muttered the 
 Duke. “ Allow me to present Mr. de Y ere to you. 
 My sister. Lady Allonby.” 
 
 Lady Allonby started. For the first time she 
 became aware of the fact that her brother had been 
 followed into the room by the detective Bolton and 
 a tall, dark man, with a sunburnt, anxious-looking 
 face. He had been listening eagerly to every word 
 of the conversation. 
 
 The Duke turned to his sister, saying : 
 
 “Mr. de Vere is anxious to pay a visit to the 
 White House with as little delay as possible. He 
 thinks that he may be able to give us some start- 
 ling information about the man at present calling 
 himself Lord de Yere. We shall then have some 
 light thrown on the subject of the barbarous treat- 
 ment to which my poor wife has been subjected at 
 the hands of a ruffian.” 
 
 “ I am afraid much precious time has been lost 
 already,” said Mr. de Vere; “and if the poor 
 Duchess is to be rescued, we must start at once.” 
 
A “novel” novel. Ill 
 
 “Gretchen has promised to do what she can,” 
 said Lady Allonby ; “ she will watch every move- 
 ment, and she means to avoid taking any food pre- 
 pared otherwise than by her own hands. She will 
 then be on the alert should there be any fresh 
 move.” 
 
 “ A very good idea on Gretchen’s part, my dear 
 sister,” said Mowbray; “but even you, with tfll 
 your knowledge of Lord de Ye re’s iniquities, have 
 not yet touched on the outer edge of his crimes. 
 Let us have some refreshment while fresh horses 
 are being prepared to take us .to the White House, 
 and, on the way, I feel sure that our new friend will 
 kindly tell you the history of his life. You will ac- 
 company us, for a woman’s ready wit may stand us 
 much in need. I am determined now to follow up 
 this man till my wife is found.” 
 
 “ I am glad to see you take that active view of 
 the matter, Mowbray,” said Lady Allonby. “You 
 know I always urged you on, when you appeared 
 so hopeless and despondent.” 
 
 “ I was not then in possession of the facts which 
 I have learnt this morning, and which lead me to 
 suppose that Lord de Yere’s career is fast drawing 
 to a close.” 
 
 “And I,” said Mr. de Yere, “am equally anx- 
 ious on my side to trace this impostor. The hour 
 that restores the Duke his wife, will unite me with 
 my' long-lost child.” 
 
 “ Your child ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Lady Allonby, Seringa is my daughter. 
 I am the real Lord de vere. Yes, mine is the story 
 of a ’\ery sad life, yet another illustration of the 
 fearful way in which justice may miscarry, in which 
 appearances are strong against the victim, and es- 
 cape next to impossible. Soon after my marriage 
 I went to Australia with an old playmate of my 
 youth, Frank Moray, the son of one of the ten- 
 ants. The resemblance between us w T as so .remark- 
 able that had it been necessary to prove our iden- 
 tity, it would have been well-nigh impossible, only 
 
112 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 for a small red birthmark, by which I may always 
 be known by any member of my family aware of the 
 fact. 
 
 “Frank Moray and I had been traveling- for 
 some months when I was struck down with jungle 
 fever, which weakened me considerably. "When I 
 had sufficiently recovered we continued our journey 
 
 toward A , a town some eighty miles distant. 
 
 At one of the stations, Moray, who had consider- 
 ably changed in character, and for the worse, picked 
 a quarrel with one of the 'squatters, and stabbed 
 the unfortunate man. On the neighbors gathering 
 round, he coolly denounced me as the murderer. 
 The sight of the dead man covered in blood, and 
 the weakness caused by my recent illness, so com- 
 pletely unnerved me, that I was powerless to speak, 
 when the words which condemned me as an assassin 
 fell from the lips of my betrayer. I certainly must 
 have presented far more the appearance of a culprit 
 than my perjured companion. He coolly passed me 
 over to justice as his half-lunatic attendant, whose 
 lunacy took the form of believing himself to be Lord 
 de Yere. Suffice to say, that after fifteen years’ 
 confinement in an asylum I was discharged, to begin 
 life over again. My first care was to get some 
 money together, the next to trace the fate of my 
 child. On my return to Europe I learnt from the 
 detectives whom I had set to work most of the de- 
 tails relating to Lord de Vere’s conduct with regard 
 to his supposed daughter. I obtained Bolton’s ad- 
 dress, and followed him out here as quickly as pos- 
 sible, and provided him with the missing link to his 
 strange undertaking. I have told no one my name, 
 as I was too much afraid of Moray perpetrating 
 some still deeper villainy, of which my helpless child 
 might be the victim. I met only a few nights back 
 a man whom I think might be Moray ; he seemed 
 much interested in Australian news on hearing that 
 I had just come from that part of the world. After 
 his departure no one seemed to know who he was. 
 If Moray had the least idea that I was alive, and in 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 113 
 
 this part of the world again, he would be well aware 
 that his game was played out. The safety of my 
 daughter is the only bar to my declaring myself, 
 and assuming my right position in society at once.” 
 
 The remainder of the drive was accomplished in 
 silence, and it was quite dark when they drew up 
 in front of the White House, Not a glimmer of 
 light was to be seen in any window, not a sound 
 was heard. After a short conference together, 
 they decided to ring. No one responded, and Bol- 
 ton, placing his hand on the door, found to his sur- 
 prise that it yielded to the pressure; pushing it 
 open, they entered the hall. 
 
 “I wonder if they are off again ? ” said Bolton, 
 striking a match, and looking round as he lighted 
 a candle on the table close by. 
 
 “We must go through the house first,” said the 
 Duke, lighting another candle, and carrying it into 
 a room close to the hall door. It was a comfort- 
 able, though somewhat bare-looking apartment, 
 paneled with carved oak, and evidently served as 
 a library. The remains of a fire burned on the 
 hearth. 
 
 “Look,” said Lady Allonby, “it can’t be so 
 very long since some one was here ; the fire is still 
 burning brightly; I will remain here while you 
 search the place.” 
 
 From bottom to top they examined every cor- 
 ner and cupboard, Mr. de Yere remaining in the 
 hall on guard to prevent surprise. Not a soul was 
 to be found ; the place was evidently tenantless. 
 They assembled together once more, and joined 
 Lady Allonby in the library ; there they conferred 
 for a few moments on the next steps to be taken. 
 They at last decided on dividing their party, and 
 following the only two roads leading from the for- 
 est, Mr. de Yere offering to remain in the neighbor- 
 hood and closely watch the house. 
 
 They were already getting into the carriage, 
 ■when Lady Allonby discovered that she had left 
 her cloak behind in the library, and begged that 
 
114 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 "Some one would be kind enough to fetch it for her. 
 Bolton, who was just about to extinguish the light 
 on the hall table, hastily took up the candlestick, 
 opened the door, ana was in the library before any- 
 one else could volunteer to fetch the missing wrap. 
 Looking round the room, to his intense surprise, he 
 saw Maillard standing near the window. Had she 
 been hidden in the room all the time ? That was 
 almost impossible, as there were no draperies. She 
 Could not have entered from the hall, as Mr. de 
 Vere had never left it. Turning round he con- 
 fronted the woman, who was trembling visibly. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 By the Countess of Munster. 
 
 “Woman!” he exclaimed, hurrying towards 
 her, and seizing her by the arm, “ how, and from 
 whence, came you here ? I insist upon an answer ! 
 
 The woman, however, was silent and rigid, ap- 
 parently from extreme terror. 
 
 Again the detective spoke, this time threaten- 
 ingly : 
 
 “See here, girl ! I am convinced you are in the 
 secret which keeps the unhappy Duchess from her 
 husband — and her home. “ Now ! now ! ” seeing 
 she was preparing for a struggle to free herself 
 from nis grasp, “don’t be silly ! I have you fast, 
 you can’t get away; but — if you try — here, give 
 me your hand, and put it in my pocket. Ah ! you 
 shrink! You dislike the feeling of cold iron; and 
 you’ll like it less when I tell you those are hand- 
 cuffs, and, as there is a God above me, if you refuse 
 to aid justice when I call upon you in the Queen’s 
 name to do so, those same handcuffs shall clasp 
 your wrists ! I have help at hand, too, outside ; I 
 have but to call. So come, be sensible, for I really 
 won’t hurt you, if you will only tell me about the 
 Duchess.” 
 
 “ Take your hands off me, man ! ” answered the 
 woman, savagely. “ How dare you attack me ! 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 115 
 
 How do you know whether I have a secret ? I know 
 nothing* ! Who are you , that you dare to threaten 
 me ! ” 
 
 “ I am a police officer — ah ! you start !— a de- 
 tective, and I have been one for years ; and, there- 
 fore, you may suppose, I know guilt pretty well, 
 when it comes before me ! Why, I see it looking 
 out at your eyes ; I see it in your trembling limbs, 
 in your terror ! Come, be a good girl, and tell me 
 all you know, without useless delay. Save the 
 Duchess, who has never injured you, and you shall 
 be amply rewarded/’ 
 
 “ My God, my God l 99 groaned Maiilard, “what 
 shall I say ? I dare not tell ! What shall I do ? 
 My father, my poor father ! ” 
 
 Maiilard muttered these words almost to her- 
 self, and apparently involuntarity. But Bolton 
 caught them, and was much relieved ; for hitherto, 
 in accusing the maid, he had been daringly acting 
 upon his own barely-formed suspicions, thus risking 
 the danger of following what, after all, might be a 
 false scent. Maiilard ’s words, however, “I dare 
 
 not tell,” convinced him that she knew much, if not 
 everything. “ But,” he said to himself, “ who is 
 her father? I never heard of him ! Is he implicated, 
 I wonder? ” 
 
 “ Let me see your father,” Bolton said aloud to 
 the now weeping girl, hoping that by following her 
 train of thought he might obtain some new light 
 upon the subject. “ Take me to him, and, believe 
 me, neither he nor you shall be unrewarded for 
 helping me. “ But,” he added sternly, “ unless 
 you and he confess what you know, it w T ill be the 
 worse for you ! ” 
 
 Maiilard stood as though irresolute for a mo- 
 ment; then, looking suddenly and confidingly up 
 into the detective’s face, she seemed to come to a 
 resolve. 
 
 “Come, then,” she whispered agitatedly; “I 
 will tell you all I know ; nay, more, I will take you 
 to the Duchess herself ! She may be in bed by this 
 
116 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 time, poor lady ; but she will welcome even a de- 
 tective, at any hour, so he give her some tidings of 
 her husband ! ” 
 
 “ Now that’s as it should be,” said Bolton, ap- 
 provingly. “ So take me to her at once. You go 
 first, I will follow.” 
 
 “ Oh, hush ! hush ! ” returned Maillard, anxi- 
 ously. “ For heaven’s sake, speak low, for my 
 father — I mean Lord de Yere— what am I saying ? 
 You have confused me so ; he — they will kill me, 
 should they think I was betraying them.” 
 
 In a moment Bolton’s well-greased comprehen- 
 sion took in somehow that the girl had made a slip 
 of the tongue in mentioning her father ; but he said 
 nothing, and only watched her proceedings all the 
 . more narrowly. 
 
 “ Come ! ” she whispered , beckoning to him with 
 a hand which he saw trembled. She approached 
 one of the bookcases with which the room was fur- 
 nished, and, as she touched a particular spot behind 
 it, a panel on the opposite side of the wall slid noise- 
 lessly back, disclosing a door, through which she 
 glided, motioning to him to follow. They passed 
 quickly through a large sitting-room into a corri- 
 dor, and at a doorway Maillard stopped. 
 
 “ Her room,” she whispered ; “ but no doubt 
 she sleeps. So hush ! ” 
 
 She took a key from her bosom, and unlocked 
 the door. 
 
 “ She is kept under lock and key, poor thing,” 
 Bolton thought, compassionately, as he followed 
 the maid into the apartment. 
 
 It was pitch dark, and, instinctively, the detec- 
 tive instantly suspected a possible — nay, a probable 
 trap ; so, quickly grasping Maillard by the arm, clos- 
 ing the door, and setting his stalwart back against 
 it, he whispered fiercely, “ Now then, young woman, 
 what’s this ? What’s your game ? ” 
 
 “ This is the Duchess’s bedroom,” answered the 
 woman in a voice of surprise, as she vainly endeav- 
 ored to free herself. 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 117 
 
 “ Wait a bit, my lady,” snarled the angry de- 
 tective,, still retaining his firm hold upon his guide 
 with one hand, while with the other he struck a 
 light from a box he carried, and, hastily looking 
 around him, lit a candle which luckily was close at 
 hand. 
 
 “ Why do you hold me so tightly, you villain ! ” 
 expostulated the woman, savagely. “ I told you I 
 would bring you to the Duchess’s room, and I have 
 done so. She is there / ” pointing to an alcove on 
 the opposite side of the room, which was in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 “ She must sleep soundty,” answered Bolton, 
 ironically, “ if we have not already awoke her.” 
 
 “ She sleeps always very soundly,” simply an- 
 swered .Maillard, not seeming to notice the detec- 
 tive’s irony. 
 
 The room was, like the remainder of the house, 
 oak-paneled ; tapestry portieres hung around it, and 
 within the alcove, at the further end, stood a closely- 
 curtained bed. 
 
 Still grasping Maillard’s arm, Bolton ap- 
 proached the bed, and a shudder passed through 
 him, and the questions arose in his mind : “ What 
 should he find — there — in that bed ? Why were the 
 curtains so closely drawn ? Was there an 3 7 thing to 
 hide ? ” 
 
 Recovering himself quickly, he said authorita- 
 tively to the woman at his side, “Pull back those 
 curtains ! ” 
 
 “I cannot!” she whimpered. “You hold me 
 so tight that I can’t move ; and 1 am black and 
 blue, you hurt me so ! ” 
 
 He slackened his hold a little at this appeal, but 
 repeated, sternly : 
 
 “ I tell you, pull back those curtains ! ” 
 
 She did so, and then, with an unearthly shriek, 
 threw herself on the bed. 
 
 “ They have taken her away ! ” she sobbed. 
 “ Oh, whither have they carried her ? My poor, 
 poor mistress ! But, look ; she has left a written 
 
118 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 paper — there under the pillow. The other side. 
 Oh, let me read it, and see what it means ! ” 
 
 She stretched her free arm for it ; hut Bolton, 
 determined he should read it first, pulled her back, 
 and thundered out : 
 
 “ Girl, you have fooled, deceived me, and you 
 shall pay for this ! ” 
 
 “ I have not deceived you ! ” said the maid, pite- 
 ously, and in tears ; “ but the paper — the paper ! 99 
 
 Bolton leant eagerly over for the paper, which 
 he did not see (because it did not exist), and the 
 woman, by a quick movement, first blew out the 
 candle ; then, twisting* herself out of bis necessarily 
 relaxed hold, as he leant over the bed, pushed him 
 down violently, face downwards, upon the pillows, 
 and, rushing to the door, opened it, passed through, 
 and had locked it upon the outside before Bolton 
 could grope his way, in the dark, across the room. 
 
 Quickly Maillard sped down the passage, up a 
 flight of steps, and burst, all breathless and hys- 
 terical, into her father’s room. 
 
 “ Fly ! fly ! 99 she cried, “ while you have the 
 time , 9 7 and then she sank half-fain ting upon the couch . 
 
 Moray was still dressed, late as it was, and was 
 sitting at the table, upon which his elbows rested, 
 as he supported his chin on his hands. He started 
 when he heard his door so unceremoniously opened, 
 and seized a revolver which lay by his side. 
 
 “ Fly, father, fly ! 99 gasped his daughter ; “ the 
 police and a detective are in the house. For God’s 
 sake, save yourself ! ” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ” asked Moray, fiercely. 
 “ Are they already so close upon me ? They had 
 better beware, however, of a desperate man ! ” 
 
 “ Father, for an hour or two you are safe ; but 
 you must go at once ! 99 
 
 “ But tell me what has happened ? ” 
 
 “He — the detective — seized upon me, before I 
 knew he was there. He had left the house — oh ! I 
 had watched them — with his friends, or whoever 
 they were ; but he unfortunately returned for some- 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 119 
 
 thing, and found me. .He threatened me with hand- 
 cuffs ” (she shuddered at the recollection), “ but I 
 did not tell him anything. He offered me lots of 
 rewards if I would tell him the truth ; but I remem- 
 bered your danger, and, in my terror, • an idea 
 struck me, and I outwitted him, and when he was 
 off his guard, locked him up in the Red Room. He 
 can’t possibly get out, and ” 
 
 “You fool ! ” said Moray, angrily ; “ do you 
 mean to say you locked him into that room, close 
 to where she is ? Why, didn’t you hear the other 
 day that time has so rotted the wood, ah ! and even 
 split it here and there, so that if he were to call 
 aloud, or she to scream, they might hear each 
 other’s voices ? ” 
 
 “ Father, I did my best, and he can’t get out 
 for hours. So you will have a good start ; so 
 pray, pray go ! ” 
 
 “ Well, girl, the game is up ! Give me my Aus- 
 tralian bowie-knife and my big cloak. If I get a 
 few hours’ start I shall be safe, for I know where 
 to hide. In two hours from the moment you hear 
 me whistle, you may set your policeman free. He 
 may also be told about the Duchess — where she is ; 
 and thus he and all of them will be too occupied 
 with her to think at first of tracking me ! Then 
 they’ll think I am in hiding here — somewhere, and 
 will search here — and give me another hour’s law. 
 If you don’t hear of me in a fortnight’s time I 
 shall be safe, for I will not be taken alive — and you 
 .would hear of that I But be sure I will sell my life 
 dearly. My chief danger will be in getting through these 
 woods ; once out of them, I am safe I Good-bye, 
 and kiss me, girl, for your poor mother’s sake ! ” 
 
 Kissing his daughter lightly on the forehead, 
 and without a thought of her ultimate safety, he 
 blew out the light, opened the shutters, and then 
 the window, and springing actively on to the 
 bough of a large tree which grew close to the 
 house- wall, he climbed higher and higher into its 
 branches, and his daughter saw him no more. 
 
120 
 
 A “ novel” novel. 
 
 Gently closing the shutters, she sat down and 
 waited for her father’s signal. In about ten min- 
 utes she heard it — a faint two notes, which she 
 knew well ; upon which she lit the candle, and sank 
 shiveringly upon a couch, feeling herself alone — 
 alone. 
 
 “ What shall I do now? ” she thought. “ No 
 one but myself — not even the other servants — know 
 where the Duchess is, and I can’t get at her, except J 
 through the Red Room, where I decoyed him and 
 locked him up. I will wait for the two hours, to 
 give my father start of them ; then I will push a 
 note under the Red Room door, telling the man in 
 it where and how to find the Duchess, and while Tie j 
 is seeking her, and out of the room, I will unlock s 
 the door, so that when he returns thither with her* 1 
 they will find themselves free. Ah ! I’m a vile ■ 
 woman, I know, but a very miserable one ; and I t 
 often felt sorry for her, poor thing — so gentle and 
 good. But, oh ! I envy her, happiness now. I will 
 tell Gretchen what I have done. I always felt she \ 
 was the Duchess’s friend ! And then I — I — where * 
 shall I go ? ” 
 
 A burst of weeping was her answer to this ques- 
 tion. Then she got a piece of paper and a pencil, ] 
 and wrote thus : 
 
 “ The Duchess is hidden in a secret room, which can only be 
 entered through the Red Room, in which you are. So if you 
 wish to find her, follow these directions : 
 
 “ Upon the top panel, nearest to the alcove on the right, you 
 will, if you look carefully, perceive that the wood is slightly 
 uneven. Press your finger on the rough edge, and a panel at ; 
 the head of the bed will slide away, opening a space large 
 enough for you to pass through. You will find yourself in a 
 dark passage, at the end of which is a corkscrew stair. Descend, 
 and walk along the next dark passage. You wiU come to another ^ 
 corkscrew stair, which ascend, and when you stand on the top 
 Btep you will see a wooden molding on the left. Pass your hand 
 behind it, and you will feel a small hole, into which insert your 
 finger and press the spring. A door on the left will swing open, 
 and inside it another door. Joan Moray.’ ’ 
 
 She folded the paper and put it in her bosom, 
 then sitting down opposite the clock, waited wearily 
 for the two hours to pass. 
 
A “NOVEL” novel. 
 
 121 
 
 Meantime Bolton raged up and down the Red 
 Room, like a lion caged. He attacked the door 
 first, of course, trying to force it, but it was a solid 
 piece of wood and invulnerable, and it opened in- 
 wards. Then he brought out a bunch of keys to 
 see if by good chance any of them might fit the 
 door lock, but to no use. In his impotent rage he 
 tore down the 'portieres , and, calling to mind the 
 mode by which the woman had opened the sliding 
 door of the library, he pressed and pinched every 
 apparent excrescence till his fingers were sore and 
 aching like his heart. 
 
 At last, tired out, he sank upon a couch and be- 
 wailed his fate. How exasperating to have been 
 defeated, just when he was on' the eve (he felt sure 
 of that ) of a great discovery ! Then suddenly he 
 remembered that the Duchess was certainty in this 
 very house, probably imprisoned as he was, and 
 perhaps not many yards away. The thought was 
 humiliating— maddening. What should he do that 
 he had not done ? 
 
 “ Do ? ” he exclaimed excitedly. “ Why, shout, 
 howl, roar and make an infernal noise ! ” Firstly, 
 because the Duchess might hear him and call back ; 
 and, secondly, because he was sure that the Red 
 Room in which he was confined was on the ground 
 floor, and therefore his friends outside who were 
 watching the house might hear him. So he set to 
 work with a will, shouting, bawling at the very 
 top of his voice, “Your Grace! Your Grace! 
 Allonby ! De Yere ! ” Then he thumped on the 
 wainscotting, and again screamed the same words, 
 only he added, “If your Grace hears, pray answer 
 a friend ! ” But hush ! He fancied— nay, he was 
 sure, he heard a voice, a woman’s voice, faintly 
 raised in answer to his own. There ! again he 
 heard it ! 
 
 “ Madame,” our poor prisoner again vociferated, 
 “if you hear me, answer, and say where you are.” 
 
 Again the voice was raised, but with the unsat- 
 isfactory words, “ I am here ! Help, help ! ” 
 
122 
 
 A ‘ ‘ NOVEL ’ 5 NOVEL. 
 
 a 
 
 “ My God ! ” said the detective : “ what is to be 
 done ? 99 
 
 He sat some moments in mute despair, when 
 suddenly he heard a . sort of rustle, and, turning 
 quickly, perceived a note had been pushed in be- 
 neath the door. Rushing frantically across the 
 room, he seized the door handle. No S still locked. - 
 He listened ; he thought he heard quickly retreat- J 
 ing footsteps. 
 
 Once more he belabored the door, and then pro- 1 
 ceeded (as no doubt he would have done at once had i 
 he not been a clever detective) to tear open and jj 
 read the letter. 
 
 Wild with joy at its import, he set himself at \ 
 once to follow the directions. Seizing a chair, he j 
 mounted on it, beneath the spot indicated in the 
 letter, felt carefully along the panel, discovered the 
 slight unevenness in the wood, and pressed it on the i 
 rough edge. He instantly heard a faint rumble at 
 the head of the bed, and, oh joy ! upon hastening to 
 the place, he beheld a small aperture, through 4 
 which he crept carefully on his hands and knees. | 
 Holding his instructions in one hand, and carrying T 
 his candle high above his head in the other, he 
 looked cautiously around. A dark passage and a \ 
 winding stair at the farther end, which he de- 
 scended, and entered into another dark passage, j 
 slightly longer than the first. There was a turn, , 
 also, in this one, and then he came upon the second 
 winding stair. Quickty ascending the steps, when 
 he arrived at the topmost one, he sought and found 
 the molding and the hole inserting his finger, he | 
 pressed the spring, and again he heard a sound, and 
 a door flew open, discovering another door, the en- 3 
 trance to the room. 
 
 His heart beat so, he could scarcely stand ; but 
 recovering himself, he turned the handle and en- 
 tered. As he did so, a lovely but fragile-looking 
 lady rose hastily from a couch. She was so pale, 
 so thin, that she seemed like an ethereal being more 
 than a woman ; and her excitement at the entrance 
 
A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 123 
 
 of a stranger, although a friend, was so great that, 
 in spite of poor Bolton’s expressions of reassuring 
 sympathy and joy, she uttered a wild shriek, and 
 fell at his feet in a faint. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. • 
 
 By Miss Edith Ostlers. 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE WOODS. 
 
 Lady Allonby, Lord de Vere (for we will now 
 call him by his rightful title), and the Duke re- 
 mained in the carriage, waiting for Bolton’s return 
 with the cloak ; but, after nearly ten minutes had 
 elapsed and he did not reappear, the Duke’s patience 
 gave way, and, not suspecting the truth, “ What 
 can be detaining Bolton all this while ? ” he said. 
 “ If that villain has taken my wife away again we 
 are losing all chance of finding them at this rate, 
 for we are wasting time, which, now that every mo- 
 ment is precious to us, is simply madness.” 
 
 “You are right,” said De Vere; “ I will join 
 Boltoii, and we will take the short road through 
 the forest. Perhaps by that means one or other of 
 us may come upon some clew. At any rate, it is 
 useless for us all to wait here.” 
 
 The Duke readily agreed to this proposal, and 
 as the carriage drove off with himself and Lady 
 Allonby, Lord de Vere returned once more to the 
 White House. 
 
 He had entered the gate, and almost reached the 
 door, when he heard two low whistles from the ad= 
 jacent wood, and, turning quickly, he descried in 
 the gathering gloom a dark figure, which darted 
 like a shadow among the trees on his left. 
 
 At once it flashed upon him that it was Bolton s 
 who had evidently discovered something, and had 
 whistled to attract his attention. 
 
 The wildness and grimness of the place were in- 
 describable. 
 
 He heard the brushwood crackle behind him, and 
 turning, saw the figure of a man rapidly advancing. 
 
124 
 
 > 1 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 Eagerly and joyfully he hastened to meet it. 
 
 “ Bolton ! ” he said ; “ is it you ? ” 
 
 The man was' within ten paces of him. At the 
 sound of his voice, he stopped short, irresolute for a 
 moment ; then, without answering, he turned round, 
 and was about to retreat as rapidly as he had come, 
 when De Yere hurried forward, and, taking him by : 
 the arm — 
 
 “Who are you ? ” he cried. 
 
 Still no answer, hut the man wrenched himself, 
 away. 
 
 Quick as thought De Yere felt for his match-box, S 
 and struck a light. 
 
 The flame flickered up brightly, and for one mo- j 
 ment shone on the face of the strange man ; then a 
 sudden gust of wind came and extinguished it. 
 
 But, in that moment. Lord de Vere recognized 
 the face of Frank Moray. 
 
 He staggered back as though he had received a 
 blow, the smoldering match fell from his hand, his . 
 brain swam. 4 
 
 And, his whole frame trembling with wrath and j 
 excitement, he stretched out his hands to clutch his j 
 enemy, and the two men closed in a deadly grapple. ] 
 
 At length, by a dexterous turn, Moray threw De ■ 
 Yere upon the ground, and planting his knee upon J 
 the prostrate man’s chest — treacherous to the end ; 
 — he drew his bowie knife from his belt. 
 
 There was a bright flash of steel, a horrid thug 
 sound as the blade struck into the quivering flesh, a 
 choking gasp, and De Yere, who had struggled on j 
 to his elbow again, fell heavily back, still clutching i 
 Moray with frenzied hands. Freeing himself with 1 
 difficulty from this horrible embrace, saturated j 
 with the warm blood that gushed forth from his 
 victim’s side, Moray sprang to his feet, and, tremb-j 
 ling in every limb, stood in an attitude of intense 
 fear, listening intently. 
 
 For, simultaneously with the flash of the knife , 
 as he drew it forth, he had heard a stifled cry from. 
 among the trees at the back, and the guilty wretch, 
 
A “ novel” novel. 
 
 125 
 
 fearing a witness to his crime, remained paralyzed 
 with terror, great drops standing out on his fore- 
 head, every fiber of his frame shaking. Then, as 
 all was still, with a great effort he dashed his hand 
 
 across his brow. , , , ... , 
 
 “ What a fool I am,” he muttered, to think 
 any one could have been watching. And yet that 
 cry — pshaw ! it must have been some wild animal 
 I heard, or a creaking bough.” 
 
 With a cry like some wild beast, he dashed into 
 the darkest depths of the forest and disappeared. 
 
 And the wind tore after him, and shrieked as it 
 
 passed the silent body on the ground. 
 r * * * * * 
 
 Two minutes later the bushes at the back parted 
 and the frightened face of a girl appeared. 
 
 It was G-retchen. 
 
 White and trembling, she emerged from her 
 hiding-place, and glancing furtively around her, 
 with chattering teeth, the terrified girl approached 
 the body that lay so quiet and awful upon the soft 
 green moss. 
 
 Twice she stopped, sick with fear, then nerving 
 herself bravely to her task, she knelt beside the 
 motionless figure, and turned it gently over ; and, 
 although the ghastly, distorted face and the sight 
 of the dark blood made the poor girl shake like an 
 aspen, she persevered, and placing her hand on his 
 heart — 
 
 “ Grott in Himmel be praised ! ” she cried, “ he 
 lives ! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 By Miss Lena M. Horsford. 
 
 “ After long storms and tempests overblowne, 
 
 The sunne at length his joyous face doth cleare.” 
 
 . — Spenser. 
 
 In the meantime, Bolton was doing his best to 
 restore the Duchess to consciousness. Now that he 
 had once gained possession of her, he was deter- 
 mined not to lose sight of her for an instant, and 
 
126 A “novel” novel. 
 
 n 
 
 to give no one the slightest chance of carrying her 
 off again. 
 
 “ Courage,” he said gently, as his efforts were 
 rewarded, and Seringa looked inquiringly into his ' 
 face. ' “You are safe with me, and I will take you j 
 back to your husband : your troubles are almost 
 over, dear lady.” 
 
 The Duchess clasped her thin white hands round 
 the detective’s wrist. 
 
 “ Don’t leave me,” she implored, raising herself 
 from the recumbent position in which he had placed 
 her. “ I am afraid of him ; he is so reckless of late, ' 
 as though he would stay at nothing to gain his own 
 ends, that I, his daughter, am beginning to hate i 
 him.” 
 
 The sound of hurried footsteps upon the graveled j 
 path outside broke up his reflections, and he turned 
 from the window just as Gretchen appeared in the 1 
 doorway. She told her story to Bolton as quietly 
 as possible, so as not to alarm the Duchess, and . 
 then waited to receive his orders. j 
 
 For some minutes Bolton hesitated, not knowing 
 exactly how to proceed. 
 
 Nothing could be done until help came, and 
 Gretchen was dispatched to procure a carriage and 
 everything necessary to convey the wounded man 
 and his unfortunate daughter to their friends. 
 
 As soon as she had started, Seringa turned to . 
 the detective. 
 
 “ Come,” she said, “ I know where to find 
 brandy and soft handkerchiefs. We will go out to. j 
 this stranger ; you know him, I daresay, although i 
 Gretchen does not. He may bleed to death out , 
 there, while I, whom he came to help, am waiting 
 here. You can use your whistle as a signal to let ] 
 them know where we are.” 
 
 At last the preparations were completed, and 
 with Seringa’s hands tightly clasped round his ; 
 arm, the detective led her out into the wood in the j 
 direction of the clearing spoken of by Gretchen. 
 
 The Duchess’s strength was giving out, and 
 
A “NOVEL.” NOVEL. 127 
 
 Bolton was beginning* to fear lest she would over- 
 tax herself, when a slight opening in the trees, 
 showing a clear space beyond, told him that their 
 walk was at an end. 
 
 A break in the clouds and a bright gleam of 
 moonlight, lasting rather longer than usual, en- 
 abled them to see the figure of a man lying on the 
 grass. 
 
 Seringa rallied her failing strength, and moving 
 quickly onward, knelt down by his side. For some 
 minutes neither spoke ; both were too busy doing 
 their best for the sufferer. 
 
 At last Bolton rose to his feet; he had done his 
 utmost, and they must now wait until help came. 
 He suggested rolling his overcoat into a cushion 
 and putting it under Lord de Vere’s head, that 
 Seringa might rise, but she would not hear of it. 
 
 “Who is he?” whispered the Duchess after a 
 while, as he paused before her. 
 
 In as few words as possible he repeated to her 
 the substance of the story Lord de Yere had told 
 them in the carriage earlier in the evening. Her 
 face grew white as she listened, and then lighted 
 up with a loving look as she bent and kissed his 
 forehead. 
 
 “My father!” she murmured. “I have had 
 my share of suffering, but yours has been far more 
 grievous, for when he had kept you a prisoner out 
 there in Australia, he parted you for ever from 
 home and the wife you loved, while I shall again 
 meet, and perhaps be happy with my loved one. 
 There is no fear of my oath being the cause of any 
 more misery, now that I know the man I thought 
 to be my father is only an impostor.” 
 
 “Will you tell me what your oath was, Lady 
 Seringa ? ” Bolton asked. “ That he reminded you 
 of it when he wrote that note on your wedding-day 
 I know, for I found the remains of it.” 
 
 “ It was a very simple one,” returned Seringa, 
 quietly, scarcely lifting her eyes from the white, 
 unconscious face on her lap. “ When my mother 
 
128 
 
 A 
 
 “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 was dying she told me that my father was out in 
 Australia, and in some kind of trouble, and she 
 made me swear if ever it was in my power to help 
 him in any way I would do so, no matter what the 
 cost might be to myself. Two years afterwards I 
 was called upon to fulfill part at least of my oath, 
 and I married Sidney Arkell, bad and cruel man as 
 I knew him to be, to save him who called himself f 
 my father from ruin and disgrace.” 
 
 A footstep sounding upon the crisp dead leaves, j 
 which lay thickly on the ground, made Bolton turn : 
 quickly in the direction from whence ib came, but j 
 before he could utter a word the intruder had run j 
 forward, and thrown herself down beside the I 
 Duchess. 
 
 “ Maillard ! ” the lady exclaimed. 
 
 Afraid of some new treachery, the detective 
 grasped her arm and drew her away. 
 
 “Why are you here ? ” he asked. 
 
 “ To make what reparation I can,” sobbed the 
 wretched maid, “ and to ask forgiveness for all I « 
 have helped to make my lady suffer.” 
 
 “ Rather late to ask forgiveness,” he remarked, 
 grimly. “ You wait until the game is up, and then 
 try to make what you call reparation for the months i 
 of misery you have inflicted upon your mistress.” 
 
 “ I could not act differently. He had me in his 
 power even more securely than he had her,” re- ' 
 turned Maillard, turning her face, red and swollen 
 with crying, full upon her captor. “ Listen but a 
 moment, and you will see. For eight long years I . 
 had not seen Lord de Vere, as I then thought him, 
 until the wedding morning, when he waylaid me on 
 my way to the Duke’s house, to help my mistress 
 after the service was over. Both she and I believed 
 him to be abroad. He was waiting at the gates, 
 and spoke to me, asking if his daughter was mar- 
 ried. I told him I should think so by that time. 
 Then he said he had traveled night and day, hop- 
 ing to be in time to stop it, as her first husband was 
 alive.” 
 
 
A “NOVEL ” NOVEL. 129 
 
 “ Was it true ? ” breathed Seringa. 
 
 “ No/’ was the decided answer. “Mr. Arkell 
 shot himself dead at his club, as it was reported at 
 the time.” 
 
 The Duchess covered her face with her hands. 
 
 “ Thank God ! ” she said, reverently. “ If he is 
 dead nothing can sever me from my beloved hus- 
 band.” 
 
 “ Something in his face made me ask if it was 
 true,” continued Maillard. “ ‘ Quite true/ he said, 
 ( If I were the Duke of Mowbray I should want 
 more proof than your word for it/ I answered. 
 His face grew white with passion, and he grasped 
 my arm. ‘Listen, girl/ he hissed. ‘It needs but 
 a word from me and the police have the clew they 
 need to bring your husband, Frank Maillard, to an- 
 swer for the crime committed so many years ago 
 out there in the bush. Aid me to the best of your 
 ability, and he is safe ; defy me, and take the con- 
 sequences. I can bring her to me at my slightest 
 call; take care she knows nothing of what I have 
 told you about Arkell, I will tell her myself . Money 
 I must and will have, and as long as she is with the 
 Duke that is an impossibility/ It was not until 
 two days ago I learned that my father, and not 
 my husband, was guilty of the -murder out in 
 Australia, and that he whom all these months I 
 had believed to be Lord de Yere was in reality 
 my father, and no relation of her Grace’s at alL 
 I prayed him then to let her go free, while he 
 and I sought safety abroad, but he would not ; 
 and how could I, his daughter, be the first to be- 
 tray him?” 
 
 Poor girl ! ” murmured the Duchess compassion- 
 ate^, holding out her hand in token of forgiveness. 
 “ I can forgive anything now that I have the hap- 
 piness of knowing that I shall soon be reunited to 
 my dear husband, and that nothing can part us 
 more.” 
 
 In a few minutes more Gretchen came up to 
 them, followed by a doctor whom she had fetched, 
 
130 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 while the carriage was being made ready. At last ' 
 the hotel was reached, and the detective alighted 
 and went in alone. In a few moments he returned. 
 
 “Come,” he said to the Duchess, holding out 
 his hand to assist her to the ground. Oblivious of | 
 all but that she was going into her husband’s pres- : 
 ence. Seringa obeyed, and, with one trembling hand 
 lying on his arm, walked up the steps and into the i 
 hall. He saw the Duke rise from a seat near the J 
 table, and gaze at the figure by his side as though J 
 unable to believe his sight, then, hs she sprang for- i 
 ward with a cry of “ Carrol, my husband ! ” he 1 
 closed the door and left them together. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 By Miss Daisy Moutray Read. 
 
 “AT LAST ALL SHALL BE WELL.” 
 
 “ All’ s well that ends well. ’ ’ — Shakespeare . 1 
 
 Having left the restored lovers together, Bolton 4 
 returned to the carriage and assisted in removing 
 Lord de Yere to his own room. The hastily sum- I 
 moned Dresden doctors agreed that care was the 
 only thing necessary, and rest. A few weeks would | 
 see him all right again. 
 
 Much relieved by this good news, the hard-work- 
 ing detective returned to the room where Gretchen ' 
 and Maillard were eagerly expecting him, the latter i 
 still weeping bitterly. 
 
 “ Tell me, there is hope ? He will live ? ” she i 
 exclaimed. 
 
 “ There are great hopes that his lordship may 
 do so,” was the grave answer. “ Joan Maillard, j 
 I must have a private conversation with you, and 
 you are to consider yourself as under arrest.” 
 
 The girl gave a frightened cry and clung to 
 Gretchen. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and Lord and Lady 
 Allonby, with Clive Lyndhurst, entered. 
 
 “ What news 't ” 
 
 
A 
 
 “ novel” novel. 
 
 131 
 
 “ Gretchen, Maillard, you here ! " 
 
 “The Duchess?" they exclaimed, simultane- 
 ously. 
 
 “ Is safe, thank God, and with her husband/' re- 
 plied Bolton, reverently. 
 
 “ Thank God, indeed," was the fervent response. 
 
 “How did you come?" asked Lady Allonby, 
 after an instant's silence. 
 
 Quickly Bolton recounted his adventures in the 
 White House after his return for the cloak, then of 
 Gretchen’s fortunate appearance, and of their re- 
 turn with the almost murdered Lord de Vere, add 
 mg— 
 
 “But I have no time to stay now; the murderer 
 must be stopped at once. Maillard," he continued, 
 as she gave a low cry, “is put under arrest. 1 
 must be off. Lord Allonby, will you come with 
 me ? 'Twill be a hard and dangerous job, I fear." 
 
 “We will both come," said Clive Lyndhurst, 
 and the three men hurried out. 
 
 Lady Allonby turned to the weeping girl. 
 
 “ Forgive me,, forgive me ! " moaned the wretch- 
 ed woman. 
 
 “I have forgiven you," said a sweet voice. 
 
 All three glanced up. The Duke had entered the 
 room with his wife on his arm. 
 
 Next minute the lovely Duchess was kneeling 
 beside the suppliant, mingling her tears with those 
 of her persecutor. 
 
 The Duke and Duchess left Dresden almost irm 
 mediately, to spend the winter months in Italy, 
 before returning to Mowbray Castle ; Maillard, at 
 her own passionate request, remaining with them 
 as maid. She had willingly made a full confession 
 of the whole horrible plot. 
 
 Frank Moray, taking the place of Lord de Vere 
 (after that unfortunate gentleman's incarceration 
 in Australia), returned to Europe, but not to Lady 
 de Vere, alleging as his reason for so doing that he 
 was in trouble through another, and must live in- 
 cognito. 
 
132 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 Lady de Yere lived as a widow with her only 
 child. Lady Seringa ; and she, Joan Moray, was 
 her maid. After Lady de Vere’s death, Moray, 3 
 personating Lord de Vere, returned to fetch his J 
 daughter. About the same time Joan met and 
 married Frank Maillard, who afterwards deserted ' | 
 her, on which she returned to her young lady, then 
 married to Mr. Arkell. 
 
 Lord de Vere they seldom saw, never during J 
 the eight years of Lady Seringa’s widowhood. The a 
 letter Bolton found was one from Moray to herself, 
 announcing that he held her husband’s life in his 
 hands, telling of the murder, which he afterwards 
 confessed to have committed himself : indeed, Mail- = 
 lard was the murdered, not the murderer. 
 
 The rest of the sad story was now known. Lady 
 Seringa was persuaded to fly by the news that 
 Arkell was not dead ; this, however, the pretended 
 De V ere denied afterwards, telling her that he 
 kept her merely as a safeguard for his own life, 
 which was in danger from an intimate friend of the i 
 Duke of Mowbray’s. 
 
 The poor girl was utterly broken down after 
 telling her story. With many tears, she gave the 
 Duchess a tiny parcel, which on opening was found 
 to contain the missing miniature of the Duke. 
 
 “My father took the jeweled lid and clasp,” she 
 sobbed, “ but I saved this, though I dared not give 
 it you before. The bracelet was sold to Gretchen 
 Schmidt’s brother at Bauton.” - 
 
 “ It is here,” said the Duke, smiling, and clasp- 
 ing it round the fair white wrist. 
 
 So Maillard went with the Duchess. The great 
 sorrow she had gone through had softened her con- J 
 siderably, and Lady Allonby and the Duchess 1 
 
 hoped she would be won by sorrow" to better things. 
 
 Hi * * * ❖ 3 
 
 While Lord de Yere had lain unconscious beside 
 his daughter and Bolton, his would-be murderer j 
 was hastening away, away ! Escape ! escape ! ! 1 
 That was now all that remained for him ; he mut- 
 
A. ‘ € NOVEL ’ ’ NOVEL. 
 
 133 
 
 tered over and over again that one word, and 
 strained every nerve to accomplish the fact. 
 
 After hours of struggling, he gained the place 
 he had determined on as his first shelter — a mount- 
 ain cavern, overhung by heavy rocks and almost 
 hidden by a rank mass of dying creepers, stunted 
 trees, and bushes. 
 
 Dead beat, the wretched man threw himself on 
 the ground with a loud groan, and drained his 
 brandy-flask to the last drop. 
 
 Louder yet grew the storm sounds ; the crash of 
 a forest tree was echoed by a louder roar from 
 the heights above the torrent : a huge piece of 
 rock, loosened from its treacherous hold by the com- 
 bined efforts of wind and rain, had fallen, blocking 
 up alike all entrance or egress from the cavern. 
 
 Next summer a company of woodmen came to 
 the Torrent Cave for shelter. The stream had 
 worn aw r ay the rocky barrier, and with their united 
 efforts it was rolled aside. But the cavern w 7 as 
 not used as a shelter that day. 
 
 Lying by the blocked-up entrance was the skele- 
 ton of a man ; his left hand clasped a brandy-flask, 
 and in his right was an Australian bowie-knife. 
 
 jfc ^ ~ 
 
 A son and heir had come to bring added joy and 
 peace to Castle Mowbray ere the news of Frank 
 Moray’s awful fate reached England. For many 
 days the Duke dared not tell his wife; but one 
 calm autumn evening she left her seat by the baby’s 
 cot, and stood beside him in the large oriel window, 
 her head resting lovingly on his shoulder. 
 
 A woman, with sad face and quiet black dress, 
 entered with a note. 
 
 “Poor Maillard ! ” said Seringa, when she had 
 left the room ; “ after all, she has suffered most. I 
 wonder, will she ever again hear of her father? 
 Carrol, you start ; you have heard something ? ” 
 
 “Yes, my Desiree, but I did not wish to pain 
 you.” Then he told her all. 
 
134 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 The sunset lights faded from the sky, the flicker- 
 ing shadows played on the walls. Still they sat by 
 the window, hand in hand, her head on his shoulder. 
 
 “ The brightness is complete now,” she said. 
 
 “ Yes ; it was a dark beginning for our journey 
 of life together, my own ; but the past darkness 
 only enhances the present brightness, and to- 
 gether, dear, our love will lighten every sorrow, 
 and increase every joy that the future may bring.” 
 
A ‘ ‘ NOVEL 7 7 NOVEL* 
 
 135 
 
 THE PLOT. 
 
 By Lady Constance Howard . 
 
 IN THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER THE AUTHORESS OF THE FIRST 
 EXPLAINS HOW SHE WOULD HAVE DEVELOPED THE STORY 
 HAD SHE BEEN WRITING THE ENTIRE NOVEL. 
 
 “ Come what come may. 
 
 Time and the hour run through the roughest day.” 
 
 Macbeth , Shakespeare. 
 
 In spite of all the efforts of the Duke, Vernil, Tredegar, 
 and Clive Lyndhurst, aided by the staff at Scotland Yard, 
 no expense being spared, time passes on, and there is no 
 trace whatever of the missing Duchess ; she has gone as 
 completely as Gainsborough’s famous picture of the Duchess 
 of Devonshire. 
 
 The Duke, almost distracted, as well he may be — no fancy 
 as to what can have become of his idolized wife, is too mild 
 for him to entertain, but they all are wide of the mark, as 
 Seringa remains 4 ‘ lost to sight, to memory dear.” The 
 Duke believes that she must be dead, or she would relieve 
 his anxiety as to her whereabouts, and explain her extra- 
 ordinary conduct,, He will have nothing to say to the the- 
 ory of her first husband being alive, as if that were the 
 case, he thinks she would have told the truth to him, and 
 though it meant parting to them both, at least he would 
 have known his darling s fate. And if freedom in the future 
 had mercifully been granted to them, Seringa would have 
 found him waiting in truth and constancy for her, for no 
 other woman would ever call him husband, so long as she 
 was alive, probably not were she dead, for the Duke was one 
 of those rare men who love once and for ever, whether their 
 love brings them happiness or misery ; indeed, when the lat- 
 ter is the case, cling to it all the more obstinately. 
 
 The Duke was quite broken-hearted — a mere shadow of 
 himself, refused to go out, and seemed to have but one in- 
 terest in life — the detective’s reports which reach him almost 
 
136 
 
 A “NOVEL” novel. 
 
 daily, only to make him more despairing as time flies, and 
 fee seems as far as ever from tidings of the Duchess. 
 
 At last Lady Allonby persuades him to go down with 
 her to her beautiful country place, Woodbridge, in Hert- 
 fordshire, telling him that any news can be sent on to him 
 there, and trying by every means in her power to lighten 
 some of his terrible troubles. 
 
 He finds comfort in talking with his sister and Lord Al- 
 lonby, one of the few people who seem to have known 
 Seringa’s first husband well, and who describes him as about 
 as bad a specimen of his sex as the world could show. He 
 was selfish, unprincipled — for not even such a woman as Se- 
 ringa for his wife had power to keep him straight ; a bom 
 gambler and spendthrift, with no consideration for his wife, 
 who had been sacrificed to him as a means of paying her 
 father’s debt to him. 
 
 Seringa’s father died just before her husband, and since 
 the latter’s disappearance she had led the quietest life, see- 
 ing but few people. 
 
 Her maid was devoted to her, having lived in her service 
 many years before she married Mr. Arkell. 
 
 No trace of him had ever been found ; by his will he left 
 considerable property to Seringa, who had lived in perfect 
 comfort. 
 
 She made the Duke’s acquaintence seven years after she 
 became a widow, and they were married a year after. She 
 had no children. 
 
 Out of consideration for her brother’s grief, Lady Allonby 
 had no one at first staying at Woodbridge, so the Duke and 
 Lord Allonby could amuse themselves as they pleased with- 
 out the trouble of entertaining guests. 
 
 It was now September, so Lady Allonby asked her brother 
 if he minded a few people being there. Being very unselfish, 
 he would not refuse to remain at Woodbridge, when he 
 found that his sister had set her heart on his remaining 
 under her roof. 
 
 Some dozen people therefore assembled, the gentlemen 
 for shooting, the ladies to flirt and enjoy themselves boat- 
 ing, and dancing, and riding. 
 
A u NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 137 
 
 Among these was Lynette de San sal, one of the most 
 beautiful women of her day. 
 
 She was quite young, about five-and-twenty, lovely as 
 a dream, with the coloring of a Spaniard, and masses of 
 black hair, and great, languishing black eyes, veiled by long 
 lashes. 
 
 She was, moreover, a widow, and report said had led her 
 husband a terrible life with her extravagance, bad temper 
 and flirtations. Her fathe v * was a Spaniard, her husband a 
 Frenchman, the Count de Sansal. 
 
 He had been dead two years. 
 
 Of course the Duke’s tragic story was known to her as 
 to the rest of the world, and being quite incapable of sym- 
 pathizing with the troubles of others, nothing touched or 
 interested her except what affected herself personally. She 
 thought the Duchess’s disappearance a decided blessing. 
 Hearts are often caught in the rebound ; Lynette was very 
 ambitious ; a countess’s coronet did not satisfy her when 
 strawberry leaves existed. She came to Woodbridge with a 
 purpose— -that of, if possible, supplanting the Duchess, 
 always supposing that lady did not appear any more, 
 
 She had known the Duke a long time, they were on terms 
 of great friendship, and people at one time thought that 
 she would have been his choice. But he met Seringa, and 
 the whole world was changed for him then. Any slight 
 fancy he had for Lynette was quite a ihing of the past, for 
 in Seringa he met the only woman who had power to com- 
 plete his life, and make his marriage with her a true union 
 of hearts as well as hands. 
 
 Therefore, Lynette de Sansal hated Seringa with all the 
 spite such a nature as hers was capable of. She would bide 
 her time, and do her best to console the Duke, after a fitting 
 time had elapsed, for she did not believe in “ one love in a 
 life.” A dangerous woman, truly, and her witcheries were 
 enhanced by her beauty, and that most charming of all gifts 
 —a low, sweet voice, which almost made people believe in 
 her goodness. 
 
 She plays her game quietly and warily, but it is all to no 
 purpose ; the Duke is absolutely faithful to his wife’s most 
 cherished memory. 
 
138 
 
 A “novel” novel. 
 
 Christmas comes and goes, a new year is begun, which 
 finds matters in precisely the same state, except that the 
 Duke is more despairing ; indeed, he has given up all hope 
 of ever seeing his darling again. 
 
 Lady Allonby is in despair. The Duke is the last of his 
 line except a ne’er-do-well cousin. It would be the greatest 
 misfortune should the title fall to him, and when the de- 
 tectives acknowledge that they are powerless and utterly 
 nonplussed, she by degrees tries to induce her brother to 
 entertain the idea after a certain time of marrying again, 
 telling him that Seringa would only desire his welfare and 
 happiness, and would feel sure her memory would always 
 &bide with him, but he ought to marry, and let the old title 
 go, as it had always done up to now, in an unbroken line for 
 generations from father to son. 
 
 Seven months after the Duchess’s disappearance still finds 
 the Duke at Woodbridge. Lynette de Sansal is also there 
 again. 
 
 Lady Allonby wants a governess for her twin girls of 
 neven. She sees an advertisement in the newspaper, goes 
 to London, and requests the lady to call upon her. She 
 does so. 
 
 She has the most beautiful snow-white hair, lovely fea- 
 tures, and violet eyes, when the spectacles she wears are for 
 a moment removed. 
 
 She explains to Lady Allonby that she suffers much with 
 her eyes, and always wears glasses, and she tells her also 
 that her hair being so white is the result of a shock from 
 which she has never recovered. When it comes to references 
 she has none to give, but she begs Lady Allonby to give 
 her a trial, and she, prompted by some feeling she is at a 
 loss to account for, consents. 
 
 She is strangely attracted by this lady (that she is one she 
 is sure), with her sad face and her pathetic eyes. She is evi- 
 dently much younger than she looks. Her plain black dress 
 fits her like a glove, and is very neat and becoming. So it is 
 arranged that she shall take up her duties at Woodbridge 
 the following week. 
 
 Accordingly Lady Allonby returns home and tells what 
 she has done. 
 
A * ‘ NOVEL ’ ’ NOVEL. 
 
 139 
 
 Lynette de Sansal shrugs her shoulders scornfully, and 
 prophesies that Lady Allonby’s protegee is an adventuress. 
 Lord Allonby approves of what his wife does, and the Duke 
 is politely indifferent. 
 
 Nothing that any woman in the world can do now mat- 
 ters to him, since the one woman in the world for him is 
 apparently lost to him forever. 
 
 Miss Deramore accordingly appears at Woodbridge, and 
 is received with open arms by her pupils, who take a fancy 
 to her then and there. The servants, too, immediately speak 
 in her praise ; in short, as Lady Allonby observes triumph- 
 antly, her protegee is quite a success. 
 
 She is so quiet, so willing and unobtrusive ; she teaches 
 the little girls all that is required so thoroughly ; she is good 
 tempered, lovely to look upon — in a word, charming. 
 
 The Duke is away when she arrives, but he is introduced 
 to her at luncheon. He gives a start as his eyes rest upon 
 her and for the first time since Seringa disappeared Lady 
 Allonby notices a shade of interest cross his expressive face, 
 which fact is patent also to Lynette de Sansal’s keen eyes. 
 Miss Deramore herself turns white to her lips, but recovers 
 herself with an effort, and returns the Duke’s bow with one 
 as courteous as his own. After this she takes no notice of 
 him ; indeed, she avoids him in a marked manner, until one 
 day he remarks it to his sister. 
 
 Is it possible, thinks Lady’ Allonby, that Miss Deramore 
 thinks she will succeed in making the Duke in love with her? 
 So, that all may be above board, Lady Allonby tells her the 
 whole tragedy of his extraordinary wedding day, and how 
 his wife had never been found. 
 
 Miss Deramore is horrified, and full of pity for the man 
 who has borne so much, and proved himself so constant. 
 
 In spite of her constrained manner to the Duke, he seeks 
 her society more and more. 
 
 This Lynette de Sansal quickly observes, and she sets to 
 w r ork by sneer and innuendo to try and oust Miss Deramore 
 from the favorite impression her quietness and beauty have 
 produced on the Duke. She even goes so far as to hint that 
 she, Lynette, knows more about Miss Deramore than others, 
 and that her knowledge does not say much for the morals of 
 
140 
 
 A “ NOVEL ” NOVEL. 
 
 the governess. She makes her out a regular fortune-hunter, 
 who has set her cap at the Duke, in the hope that she may 
 enslave him in her toils so completely that, in due course, 
 he may marry her. 
 
 The Duke listens in silence, and when the angry woman 
 has stopped from sheer want of breath in her atrocious in- 
 sinuations (she regards Miss Deramore as a rival, and feels, 
 since her appearance on the scene, her chance is over, she 
 will never marry the Duke), he tells her his opinion of her 
 unwomanly conduct in trying to poison his mind against an 
 unoffending woman, who, being in total ignorance of the 
 remarks made about her, cannot refute them or defend her- 
 self ; and he tells Lynette that in his opinion Miss Deramore 
 is worthy indeed of the respect and good opinion of all who 
 know her. Lady Allonby discovers that Miss Deramore’s 
 favorite flower is seringa ; tells her brother, who is power- 
 fully affected by the knowledge. The very word recalls to 
 him, until an agony of longing is almost unbearable, his dar- 
 ling whom he has indeed “ loved and lost.” 
 
 Time passes without tidings of the Duchess, and it be- 
 comes evident that the only person who can interest the 
 Duke in the slightest is Miss Deramore. 
 
 One day Lady Allonby has a long talk with him. She 
 urges him to propose to Miss Deramore, telling him that 
 •Seringa would wish it. His wedding-day, the 2d, will soon 
 be here again. Miss Deramore has been at Woodbridge since 
 January, after the Duchess’s disappearance. Lady Allonby 
 and all the family are devoted to her, she is treated as a 
 friend, and would be entirely one of them were it not for her 
 own persistence in remaining aloof from them all as much as 
 possible. 
 
 Lady Allonby begs him to think of the future of his 
 enormous property, and not to let it fall into the hands of 
 a spendthrift and roue , such as the heir-apparent to the 
 dukedom is. 
 
 But it is all of no avail. The Duke acknowledges that 
 Miss Deramore attracts him as no woman in the world but 
 Seringa has ever done. He remarks that he is ashamed of 
 himself that it is so, that she should ever have the smallest 
 passing influence over him, as he had always boasted that he 
 
A u NOVEL 99 NOVEL, 
 
 had only wisli’or capability for one Icve in his life ; and that 
 as he had never loved until he saw Seringa, so after her loss 
 no woman should take her place. He would live for her 
 memory, for Seringa lo£t , maybe dead, was more to him chan 
 all the women in the world, replete with life and beauty as 
 they might be. 
 
 He asks his sister if there is not a strong- but undefinable 
 something that reminds her of Seringa, adding that he feels 
 it so strongly that it is torture to him. He tells her that if 
 such a thing as marriage were possible to him again he 
 would marry Miss Deramore, if she would have him, but that 
 he cannot propose to her or to anyone ; his constancy to 
 Seringa forbids it. Lady Allonby can only wait and trust to 
 time to bring about the marriage she so much desires. 
 
 The eve of his second wedding-day comes round. Miss 
 Deramore is missing ; they make every search for her inef- 
 fectually. 
 
 The second wedding-day dawns. The Duke goes into the 
 rose garden, full of the queen or flowers ; sweet and lovely 
 are they, and the perfume of the hedge of seringa, which 
 borders it, recalls his unhappy position still more to him. He 
 breaks off a spray of blossom, and kissing it passionately, ex- 
 claims, “ Would to God I could see my darling, if only once 
 again. He looks up as he speaks, compelled by some feeling 
 stronger than himself to do so. 
 
 What does he see? Who is this lovely woman standing 
 within a few paces of him, with outstretched arms, and eyes 
 full of 'joy and love? 
 
 “Merciful Heavens! am I mad?” he says. “My wife! 
 has God given you back to me alive and, well?” 
 
 “Yes, my darling husband,” Seringa replies ; “ it is my- 
 self and none ocher.” 
 
 And he clasps her in his arms, and kisses her again and 
 again. 
 
 So Lady Allonby finds them a short time later. She is 
 about to withdraw, believing that her brother has proposed 
 to, and been accepted by Miss Deramore, when her brother 
 sees her, turns to her, and says — 
 
 “ Geraldine, now we know what attracted us both to Miss 
 Deramore. You wanted me to propose to my own wife.” 
 
A ‘ ‘ NOVEL ’ 9 NOVEL. 
 
 140 
 
 And Lady Allonby, Yxth joy that makes her speechless 
 sees the white hair gone, as also the spectacles, and in their 
 place the golden hair and violet eyes of the long-lost 
 Duchess. As for the delight of Lord Allonby, and the dis- 
 gust of Lynette de Sansal, both knew no bounds. 
 
 Then Seringa tells them the secret of her disappearance. 
 
 When she went to change her dress, her maid having 
 left her, she was aroused by a slight sound in the gallery, 
 and looking up, saw a boy mounted on stilts, who threw her 
 a dirty, crumpled-up bit of paper, and forthwith returned as 
 be came. 
 
 Mechanically she opened it, for she knew her time was 
 short, and when her eyes fell upon the writing and the con- 
 tents of the note, she thought she should die then and 
 there. 
 
 It was from her husband, whom for eight long years she 
 had believed to be dead ; he tells her that he was nearly 
 drowned, but recovered miraculously ; being tired of her he 
 went to America, and made an enormous fortune, so did not 
 interfere with what his will gave her ; lost all his money, 
 and, being penniless, sought Seringa out ; heard of her in- 
 tended marriage with the Duke, and, like the fiend he was, 
 allowed the ceremony to take place, and then finding a boy 
 playing on stilts gave him five shillings to convey the note 
 to her ; for he had prowled about the house some days, and 
 ascertaining from one of the servants the room in which 
 Seringa was to dress, bade her come to him at once. 
 
 She feels that the contents of the note are true, so locks 
 the door ; with trembling hands and an agony of despair 
 m her aching heart, puts a few things into a little bag, takes 
 off all her lovely clothes and jewels, and putting on a plain 
 dress and bonnet, left in the room by Lady Allonby’s maid, 
 she puts her wedding dress into the secret cupboard, and with 
 light tread crosses the few yards that separate her from the 
 gate in the wall, opens it, and finds herself face to face with 
 Mr. Arkell ; remembers no more for hours ; when she comes 
 to herself, finds herself with hipa in a dirty lodging in the 
 East-end of London. He proposes that she should return 
 to the Duke, say nothing of his being alive, and he will un. 
 dertake never to trouble her again, sc long as she pays him 
 
regularly a large allowance. She professes to be willing to 
 accept his terms, and asks for a little time to consider. He 
 leaves her to go and get some drink, he being already half 
 tipsy. 
 
 She has, fortunately, a very large sum in gold with her 
 which she drew out of the bank a few days previously ; she 
 slips out of the house, goes to a wig shop, and buys a white 
 wig, saying she wants ft for some theatricals ; then she buys 
 some blue spectacles, and finally a black dress and bonnet, 
 such as a nurse wears, giving the same excuse of theatri- 
 cals. Goes home, dresses, puts on wig and spectacles, and, 
 making her other clothes into a parcel, opens the door, and 
 when Mr. Arkell returns, she has disappeared. 
 
 She has left a large sum of money for him, and tells him 
 that she repudiates his offer with scorn, and that henceforth 
 she is dead to him and the Duke also 
 
 She goes to an old nurse who has known her all her life, 
 and to her she tells the truth, before she succumbs to the 
 brain fever which nearly kills her. 
 
 Faithfully does the good woman nurse her and keep her 
 secret, and by degrees she recovers After a long time — 
 some months — she advertises tot a governess’s place ; her 
 funds are exhausted, and she must work gets Lady Allon- 
 by’s Situation, and in spite of the possibility of being found 
 out, takes it ; it is so sweet to her to be under the same 
 roof as the man she adores, though she can never be any- 
 thing to him : he does not find her out, and she, seeing that 
 he is attracted to her, avoids him as much as possible. 
 
 Overhears his reply to Lady Aiionby* when she begs him 
 to propose to her, and rejoices in this proof of his constancy 
 and devotion to her. 
 
 The eve of her second wedding-day arrives ; she takes up 
 a paper, and sees that her husband this time is really and 
 truly dead, for he had been killed in a terrible railway acci- 
 dent in America, in which a whole train had gone over the 
 parapet of a bridge into the valley below. On his body were 
 found papers which established his identity, and the paper, 
 advertised for any one belonging to him. 
 
 She rushed off to London, telegraphed to the address 
 given, and got the reply confirming everything ; so once 
 
A “ NOVEL 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 And Lady Allonby, V xth joy that makes her speechless 
 sees the white hair gone, as also the spectacles, and in their 
 place the golden hair and violet eyes of the long-lost 
 Duchess. As for the delight of Lord Allonby, and the dis- 
 gust of Lynette de Sansal, both knew no bounds. 
 
 Then Seringa tells them the secret of her disappearance. 
 
 When she went to change her dress, her maid having 
 left her, she was aroused by a slight sound in the gallery, 
 and looking up, saw a boy mounted on stilts, who threw her 
 a dirty, crumpled-up bit of paper, and forthwith returned as 
 be came. 
 
 Mechanically she opened it, for she knew her time was 
 short, and when her eyes fell upon the writing and the con- 
 tents of the note, she thought she should die then and 
 there. 
 
 It was from her husband, whom for eight long years she 
 bad believed to be dead ; he tells her that he was nearly 
 drowned, but recovered miraculously ; being tired of her he 
 went to America, and made an enormous fortune, so did not 
 interfere with what his will gave her ; lost all his money, 
 and, being penniless, sought Seringa out ; heard of her in- 
 tended marriage with the Duke, and, like the fiend he was, 
 allowed the ceremony to take place, and then finding a boy 
 playing on stilts gave him five shillings to convey the note 
 to her ; for he had prowled about the house some days, and 
 ascertaining from one of the servants the room in which 
 Seringa was to dress, bade her come to him at once. 
 
 She feels that the contents of the note are true, so locks 
 the door ; with trembling hands and an agony of despair 
 m her aching heart, puts a few things into a little bag, takes 
 off all her lovely clothes and jewels, and putting on a plain 
 dress and bonnet, left in the room by Lady Allonby’s maid, 
 she puts her wedding dress into the secret cupboard, and with 
 light tread crosses the few vards that separate her from the 
 gate in the wall, opens it, and finds herself face to face with 
 Mr. Arkell ; remembers no more for hours ; when she comes 
 to herself, finds herself with higi in a dirty lodging in the 
 East-end of London. He proposes that she should return 
 to the Duke, say nothing of his being alive, and he will un. 
 dertake never to trouble her again, so long as she pays him 
 
143 
 
 A 
 
 “ NOVEL ” 
 
 NOVEL. 
 
 regularly a large allowance. She professes to be willing to 
 accept his terms, and asks for a little time to consider. He 
 leaves her to go and get some drink, he being already half 
 tipsy. 
 
 She has, fortunately, a very large sum in gold with her 
 which she drew out of the bank a few days previously ; she 
 slips out of the house, goes to a wig shop, and buys a white 
 wig, saying she wants it for some theatricals ; then she buys 
 some blue spectacles, and finally a black dress and bonnet, 
 such as a nurse wears, giving the same excuse of theatri- 
 cals. Goes home, dresses, puts on wig and spectacles, and, 
 making her other clothes into a parcel, opens the door, and 
 when Mr. Arkell returns, she has disappeared. 
 
 She has left a large sum of money for him, and tells him 
 that she repudiates his offer with scorn, and that henceforth 
 she is dead to him and the Duke also 
 
 She goes to an old nurse who has known her all her life, 
 and to her she tells the truth, before she succumbs to the 
 brain fever which nearly kills her. 
 
 Faithfully does the good woman nurse her and keep her 
 secret, and by degrees she recovers After a long time — 
 some months — she advertises for a governess’s place ; her 
 funds are exhausted, and she must work gets Lady Allon- 
 by’s Situation, and in spite of the possibility of being found 
 out, takes it ; it is so sweet to her to oe under the same 
 roof as the man she adores, though she can never be any- 
 thing to him ; he does not find her out, and she, seeing that 
 he is attracted to her, avoids him as much as possible. 
 
 Overhears his reply to Lady Aiionby* when she begs him 
 to propose to her, and rejoices in this proof of his constancy 
 and devotion to her. 
 
 The eve of her second wedding-day arrives ; she takes up 
 a paper, and sees that her husband this time is really and 
 truly dead, for he bad been killed in a terrible railway acci- 
 dent in America, in which a whole train had gone over the 
 parapet of a bridge into the valley below. On his body were 
 found papers which established his identity, and the paper 
 advertised for any one belonging to him. 
 
 She rushed off to London, telegraphed to the address 
 given, and got the reply confirming everything ; so once 
 
more she was free. Thus her second wedding-day dawned 
 and set with happiness and rejoicing ; the evil influence of 
 her life was for ever removed ; henceforth she was free, after 
 all her misery, to love and be beloved ; she had proved the 
 Duke’s constancy to her — all was peace and rest. 
 
 She and the Duke were married again in the little chapel 
 at Woodbridge. “ All’s well that ends well!” What a 
 harvest of joy and delight was theirs, after the tragic be- 
 ginning of their first wedding-day. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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