 CHAPTER XXIX. TALBOT BULSTRODE MAKES ATONEMENT FOR THE PAST. John Melish and Talbot Bulstrode walked to and fro upon the lawn before the drawing-room windows, on that afternoon on which the detective and his underling lost sight of Stephen Hargraves. It was a dreary time, this period of watching and waiting, of uncertainty and apprehension, and poor John Melish chafed bitterly under the burden which he had to bear. Now that his friends' common sense had come to his relief, and that a few plain outspoken sentences had dispersed the terrible cloud of mystery, now that he himself was fully assured of his wife's innocence, he had no patience with the stupid country people who held themselves aloof from the woman he loved. He wanted to go out and do battle for his slandered wife to hurl back every base suspicion into the faces that had scowled upon his idolized aurora. How could they dare, these foul-minded slanderers, to harbour one base thought against the purest, the most perfect of women? Mr. Melish, of course, quite forgot that he, the rightful defender of all this perfection, had suffered his mind to be, for a time, obscured beneath the black shadow of that vile suspicion. He hated the old friends of his youth for their base avoidance of him, the servants of his household for a half-doubtful, half-solom expression of face, which he knew had relation to that growing suspicion, that horrible suspicion which seemed to grow stronger with every hour. He broke out into a storm of rage with the grey-haired butler, who had carried him pick-a-pack in his infancy, because the faithful retainer tried to hold back certain newspapers which contained dark allusions to the Melish mystery. Who told you I didn't want the Manchester Guardian, Jarvis? He cried fiercely. Who gave you the right to dictate what I'm to read or what I'm to leave unread? I do want today's Guardian, today's and yesterday's, and to-morrow's, and every other newspaper that comes into this house. I won't have them overhauled by you or anyone else to see whether they're pleasant reading or not, before they're brought to me. Do you think I'm afraid of anything these Penny-Aliner fellows can write? roared the young squire, striking his open hand upon the table at which he sat. Let them write their best or their worst of me. But let them write one word that can be twisted into an insinuation upon the purest and truest woman in all Christendom. And by the heavens above me I'll give them such a thrashing. Penny-Aliner's printers, publishers, and every man-jack of them. As shall make them remember the business to the last hour of their lives. Mr. Mellish said all this, in despite of the restraining presence of Talbot Bilstrode. Indeed, the young member for Penruthi had by no means a pleasant time of it during those few days of anxiety and suspense. A keeper said to watch over a hearty young jungle-tiger, and bidden to prevent the noble animal from committing any imprudence, might have found his work little harder than that which Mr. Bilstrode did. Only and uncomplainingly, for pure friendship's sake. John Mellish roamed about in the custody of this friendly keeper, with his short auburn hair tumbled into a feverish-looking mess, like a field of ripening corn that had been beaten by a summer hurricane, his cheeks sunken and haggard, and a bristling yellow stubble upon his chin. I daresay he had made a vow neither to shave nor be shaven until the murderer of James Conyers should be found. He clung desperately to Talbot Bilstrode, but he clung with still wider desperation to the detective, the professional criminal hunter who had, in a manner, tacitly pledged himself to the discovery of the real homicide. All through the fitful August day, now hot and still, now overcrowded and chowry, the master of Mellish Park went hither and thither, now sitting in his study, now roaming out on the lawn, now pacing up and down the drawing-room, displacing, disarranging, and overturning the pretty furniture, now wandering up and down the staircase, lolling on the landing-places, and patrolling the corridor, outside the rooms in which Lucy and Aurora sat together, making a show of employing themselves, but only waiting, waiting, waiting for the hoped-for end. Poor John scarcely cared to meet that dearly-loved wife, for the great earnest eyes that looked in his face always asked the same question so plainly, always appealed so piteously for the answer that could not be given. It was a weary and a bitter time. I wonder, as I write of it, when I think of a quiet summer-sat-shire household in which a dreadful deed was done, the secret of which has never yet been brought to light and perhaps never will be revealed until the day of judgment, what must have been suffered by each member of that family, what slow agonies whatever increasing tortures, while that cruel mystery was the sensation-topic of conversation in a thousand happy-home circles, in a thousand tavern parlours and pleasant club-rooms, a common and ever-interesting topic by means of which travelers and first-class railway carriages might break down the ceremonial icebergs which surround each traveling Englishman, and grow friendly and confidential, a safe topic upon which even tacit enemies might talk pleasantly without fear of wrecking themselves upon hidden rocks of personal insinuation. God help that household, or any such household, through the weary time of waiting which it may please him to appoint, until that day in which it shall be his good pleasure to reveal the truth. God help all patient creatures laboring under the burden of an unjust suspicion, and support them unto the end. John Mellish chafed and fretted himself ceaselessly all through that August day at the non-appearance of the detective. Why didn't he come? He had promised to bring or send them news of his proceedings. Talbot, in vain, assured his friend that Mr. Grimstone was, no doubt, hard at work, that such a discovery as he had to make was not to be made in a day, and that Mr. Mellish had nothing to do but to make himself as comfortable as he could, and wait quietly for the event he desired so eagerly. I should not say this to you, John, Mr. Bolstrode said, by and by, if I did not believe, as I know this man Grimstone believes, that we are upon the right track, and are pretty sure to bring the crime home to the wretch who committed it. You can do nothing but be patient, and wait the result of Grimstone's labors. Yes, cried John Mellish, and in the meantime all these people are to say cruel things of my darling, and keep aloof from her, and— No, I can't bear it, Talbot. I can't bear it. I'll turn my back upon this confounded place. I'll sell it. I'll burn it down. I'll—I'll do anything to get away and take my precious one. From the wretches who have slandered her. That you shall not do, John Mellish, exclaimed Talbot Bolstrode, until the murderer of James Conyers has been discovered. Go away, then, as soon as you like, for the associations of this place cannot be otherwise than disagreeable to you—for a time, at least—but until the truth is out you must remain here. If there is any foul suspicion against Aurora, her presence here will best give the lie to that suspicion. It was her hurried journey to London which first set people talking of her, I daresay, added Mr. Bolstrode, who was, of course, entirely ignorant of the fact that an anonymous letter from Mrs. Powell had originally aroused the suspicions of the Doncaster Constabulary. So through the long summer's day Talbot reasoned with and comforted his friend, never growing weary of his task, never for one moment losing sight of the interests of Aurora Mellish and her husband. Perhaps this was a self-imposed penalty for the wrong which he had done to the banker's daughter long ago, in the dim-starlet chamber at Felden. If it was so, he did penance very cheerfully. Heaven knows how gladly I would do her a service, he thought. Her life has been a troubled one, in spite of her father's thousands. Thank heaven my poor little Lucy has never been forced into playing the heroine of a tragedy like this. Thank heaven my poor little darling's life flows evenly and placidly in a smooth channel. He could not but reflect with something of a shudder that it might have been his wife, whose history was being canvassed throughout the West Riding. He could not be otherwise than pleased to remember that the name of the woman he had chosen had never gone beyond the holy circle of her own home, to be the common talk among strangers. There are things which are utterly unendurable to some people, but which are not at all terrible in the eyes of others. John Mellish, secure in his own belief of his wife's innocence, would have been content to carry her away with him, after raising the home of his forefathers to the ground, and defying all Yorkshire to find flaw or speck upon her fair fame. But Talbot Pylstrode would have gone mad with the agony of the thought that common tongues had defiled the name he loved, and would, in no after-triumph of his wife's innocence, have been able to forget or to recover from the torture of that unendurable agony. There are people who cannot forget, and Talbot Pylstrode was one of them. He had never forgotten his Christmas agony at Felden Woods, and the after-struggle at Pylstrode Castle, nor did he ever hope to forget it. The happiness of the present, pure and unalloyed though it was, could not annihilate the anguish of the past. That stood alone so many months, weeks, days, and hours of un-honourable misery, riven away from the rest of his life, to remain, for ever, a stony memorial upon the smooth plains of the past. Archibald Martin Floyd sat with his daughter and Lucy in Mrs. Melish's morning-room, the pleasantest chamber for many reasons, but chiefly because it was removed from the bustle of the house, and from the chance of unwelcome intrusion. All the troubles of that household had been made light of in the presence of the old man, and no word had been dropped before him which could give him reason to guess that his only child had been suspected of the most fearful crime that man or woman can commit. But Archibald Floyd was not easily to be deceived where his daughter's happiness was in question. He had watched that beautiful face, whose ever-varying expression was its highest charm, so long and earnestly, as to have grown familiar with its every look. No shadow upon the brightness of his daughter's beauty could possibly escape the old man's eyes, dim as they may have grown for the figures in his banking-book. It was Aurora's business, therefore, to sit by her father's side in the pleasant morning-room, to talk to him, and amuse him, while John rambled hither and thither, and made himself otherwise tiresome to his patient companion, Talbot Bulstrode. Mrs. Melish repeated to her father again and again that there was no cause for uneasiness. They were merely anxious, naturally anxious, that the guilty man should be found and brought to justice. Nothing more. The banker accepted this explanation of his daughter's pale face very quietly. But he was not the less anxious. Anxious he scarcely knew why, but with the shadow of a dark cloud hanging over him, that was not to be driven away. Thus the long August day wore itself out, and the low sun, blazing a lurid red behind the trees in Melish wood, until it made that pool beside which the murdered man had fallen, seemed a pool of blood. Gave warning that one weary day of watching and suspense was nearly done. John Melish, far too restless to sit long at desert, had roamed out upon the lawn, still attended by his indefatigable keeper, Talbot Bulstrode, and employed himself in pacing up and down the smooth grass amid Mr. Dawson's flower beds, looking always toward the pathway that led to the house and breathing suppressed anathemas against the dilatory detective. One day nearly gone, thank heaven, Talbot, he said with an impatient sigh. Will tomorrow bring us no nearer to what we want, I wonder? What if it should go on like this for long? What if it should go on for ever, until Aurora and I go mad with this wretched anxiety and suspense? Yes, I know you think me a fool and a coward, Talbot Bulstrode, but I can't bear it quietly, I tell you, I can't. I know there are some people who can shut themselves up with their troubles and sit down quietly and suffer without a groan. But I can't. I must cry out when I am tortured, or I should dash my brains out against the first wall I came to and make an end of it. To think that anybody should suspect my darling. To think that they should believe her to be. To think that you should have believed it, John, said Mr. Bulstrode gravely. Ah, there's the cruelest stab of all, cried John. If I—I, who knew her and love her, and believe in her as man never yet believed in woman—if I could have been bewildered and maddened by that horrible chain of cruel circumstances—every one of which pointed, Heaven help me—at her. If I could be deluded by these things until my brain reeled and I went nearly mad with doubting my own dearest love—what may strangers think, strangers who neither know nor love her, but who are only too ready to believe anything unnaturally infamous? Talbot, I won't endure this any longer. I'll ride into Doncaster and see this man grimstone. He must have done some good today. I'll go at once. Mr. Mellish would have walked straight off to the stables, but Talbot Bulstrode caught him by the arm. You may miss the man on the road, John, he said. He came last night after dark and may come as late tonight. There's no knowing whether he'll come by the road or the shortcut across the fields. You're as likely to miss him as not. Mr. Mellish hesitated. He may not come at all tonight, he said, and I tell you I can't bear the suspense. Let me ride into Doncaster then, John, urged Talbot, and you stay here to receive grimstone if he should come. Mr. Mellish was considerably mollified by this proposition. Will you ride into town, Talbot, he said? Upon my word it's very kind of you to propose it. I shouldn't like to miss this man upon any account, but at the same time I don't feel inclined to wait for the chance of his coming or staying away. I'm afraid I'm a great nuisance to you, Bulstrode. Not a bit of it, answered Talbot with a smile. Perhaps he smiled involuntarily at the notion of how little John Mellish knew what a nuisance he had been through that weary day. I'll go with great pleasure, John, he said, if you'll tell them to saddle a horse for me. To be sure, you shall have red rover, my covert heck. I'll go round to the stables and see about him at once. The truth of the matter is, Talbot Bulstrode was very well pleased to hunt up the detective himself, rather than that John Mellish should execute that erranted person, for it would have been about as easy for the young squire to have translated a number of the sporting magazine into Poersonian Greek, as to have kept a secret for half an hour, however earnestly entreated, or however conscientiously determined to do so. Mr. Bulstrode had made it his particular business, therefore, including the whole of that day, to keep his friend as much as possible out of the way of every living creature, fully aware that Mr. Mellish's manner would most certainly betray him to the least observant eyes, that might chance to fall upon him. Red rover was saddled, and, after twenty loudly whispered injunctions from John, Talbot Bulstrode rode away in the evening sunlight. The nearest way from the stables to the high road took him past the North Lodge. It had been shut up since the day of the trainer's funeral, such furniture as it contained, left to become a prey to moths and rats. For the Mellish servants were a great deal too superstitiously impressed with the story of the murder, to dream of re-admitting those goods and chattels which had been selected for Mr. Conyer's accommodation to the garrets whence they had been taken. The door had been locked, therefore, and the key given to Dawson, the gardener, who was to be once more free to use the place as a storehouse for roots and matting, superannuated cucumber frames, and crippled garden-tools. The place looked dreary enough, though the low sun made a gorgeous illumination upon one of the lattice windows that faced the crimson west, and, though the last leaves of the roses were still lying upon the long grass in the patch of garden before the door, out of which Mr. Conyer's had gone to his last resting place. One of the stable boys had accompanied Mr. Bulstrode to the lodge in order to open the rusty iron gates, which hung loosely on their hinges, and were never locked. Talbot rode at a brisk pace into Doncaster, never drawing rain until he had reached the little inn at which the detective had taken up his quarters. Mr. Grimstone had been snatching a hasty refreshment after a weary and useless perambulation about the town, and came out with his mouth full to speak to Mr. Bulstrode. But he took very good care not to confess that since three o'clock that day neither he nor his ally had seen or heard of Mr. Stephen Hargraves, or that he was actually no nearer the discovery of the murderer, than he had been at eleven o'clock upon the previous night, when he had discovered the original proprieture of the fancy waistcoat with buttons by Crosby, Birmingham, in the person of Dawson, the gardener. "'I'm not losing any time, sir,' he said, in answer to Talbot's inquiries. "'My sort of work's quiet work, and don't make no show till it's done.' "'I've reason to think the man we want is in Doncaster, so I stick in Doncaster, and mean to till I lay my hand upon him, unless I should get information, as would point farther off. "'Tell Mr. Mellish I'm doing my duty, sir, and doing it conscientious, and that I shall neither eat nor drink nor sleep more than just as much as I'll keep human nature together, until I've done what I've set my mind on doing. "'But you've discovered nothing fresh, then?' said Talbot. "'You've nothing new to tell me?' "'Whatever I've discovered is neither here nor there, yet a while, sir,' answered the detective vaguely. "'You keep your heart up until Mr. Mellish to keep his heart up, and trust in me.' Talbot Bilstrode was obliged to be content with this rather doubtful comfort. It was not much, certainly, but he determined to make the best of it to John Mellish. He rode out of Doncaster, past the reindeer and the white-fronted houses of the wealthier citizens of that prosperous borough, and went away upon the smooth high road. The faint shimmer of the pale early moonlight lit up the tree-tops to the right and left of him, as he left the suburb behind, and made the road ghostly beneath his horse's feet. He was in no very hopeful humor after his interview with Mr. Grimstone, and he knew that hungry-eyed members of the Doncaster Constabulary were keeping stealthy watch upon every creature in the Mellish household, and that the slanderous tongues of a greedy public were swelling into a loud and ominous murmur against the wife John loved. Every hour, every moment was of vital importance. A hundred perils menaced them on every side. What might they not have to dread from eager busybodies anxious to distinguish themselves, and proud of being the first to circulate a foul scandal against the lovely daughter of one of the richest men upon the stock exchange? Hayward, the coroner, and Loftaus the rector both knew the secret of Aurora's life, and it would be little wonder if looking at the trainer's death by the light of that knowledge, they believed her guilty of some share in the ghastly business which had terminated the trainer's service at Mellish Park. What if, by some horrible fatality, the guilty man should escape, and the truth never be revealed? Forever and forever until her blighted name should be written upon a tombstone, Aurora Mellish must rest under the shadow of the suspicion. Could there be any doubt that the sensitive and highly strong nature would give way under the unendurable burden, that the proud heart would break beneath the undeserved disgrace? What misery for her? And not for her alone, but for everyone who loved her, or had any share in her history? Heaven pardoned the selfishness that prompted the thought if Talbot Bilstrode remembered that he would have some part in that bitter disgrace, that his name was allied, if only remotely, with that of his wife's cousin, and that the shame which would make the name of Mellish a byword must also cast some slur upon the institution of the Bilstrode's. Sir Bernard Burke, compiling the romance of the country families, would tell that cruel story, and hinting cautiously at Aurora's guilt, would scarcely fail to add that the suspected lady's cousin had married Talbot Raleigh Bilstrode Esquire, eldest son and heir of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bilstrode, Baronet, of Bilstrode Castle, Cornwall. Now although the detective had affected a hopeful and even mysterious manner in his brief interview with Talbot, he had not succeeded in hood-weaking that gentleman, who had a vague suspicion that all was not quite right, and that Mr. Joseph Grimstone was by no means so certain of success as he pretended to be. It's my firm belief that this man Hargraves has given him the slip, Talbot thought. He said something about believing him to be in Doncaster, and then the next moment added that he might be farther off. It's clear, therefore, that Grimstone doesn't know where he is, and in that case, it's as likely as not that the man's made off with his money, and will get away from England in spite of us. If he does this... Mr. Bilstrode did not finish the sentence. He had reached the North Lodge and dismounted to open the iron gate, the lights of the house shown hospitably far away beyond the wood, and the voices of some men about the stable gate sounded faintly in the distance, but the North Lodge and the neglected shrubbery around it were as silent as the grave, and had a certain phantom-like air in the dim moonlight. Talbot led his horse through the gates. He looked up at the windows of the Lodge as he passed, half involuntarily, but he stopped with a suppressed exclamation of surprise at the sight of a feeble glimmer, which was not the moonlight, in the window of that upper chamber in which the murdered man had slept. Before that exclamation had well nigh crossed his lips, the light had disappeared. If any one of the mellish grooms or stable boys had beheld that brief apparition, he would have incontinently taken to his heels and rushed breathless to the stables with a wild story of some supernatural horror in the North Lodge. But Mr. Bilstrode, being altogether of another metal, walked softly on, still leading its horse, until he was well out of earshot of any one within the Lodge. When he stopped and tied the Red Rover's bridle to a tree, and turned back toward the North Gates, leaving the corn-fed covert hack, cropping greedily at dewy hazeltwigs and any green meat within his reach. The air of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bilstrode crept back to the Lodge almost as noiselessly as if he had been educated for Mr. Grimstone's profession, choosing the grassy pathway beneath the trees for his cautious footsteps. As he approached the wooden paling that shut in the little garden of the Lodge, the light which had been so suddenly extinguished reappeared behind the white curtain of the upper window. It's queer, used Mr. Bilstrode, as he watched the feeble glimmer, but I daresay there's nothing in it. The associations of this place are strong enough to make one attach a foolish importance to anything connected with it. I think I heard John say that gardeners keep their tools there, and I suppose it's one of them. But it's late, too, for any of them to be at work. It had struck ten while Mr. Bilstrode rode homeward, and it was more than unlikely that any of the melanched servants would be out at such a time. Talbot lingered by the wicket-gate irresolute as to what he should do next, but thoroughly determined to see the last of this late visitor at the North Lodge when the shadow of a man flitted across the white curtain, a shadow even more weird and ungainly as such things are, the shadow of a man with a humpback. Talbot Bilstrode uttered no cry of surprise, but his heart knocked furiously against his ribs, and the blood rushed hotly to his face. He never remembered having seen the softie, but he had always heard him described as a humpbacked man. There could be no doubt of the shadow's identity. There could be still less doubt that Stephen Hargraves had visited that place for no good purpose. What could bring him there, to that place above all other places which, if he were indeed guilty, he would surely most desire to avoid? Stolid, semi-idiotic as he was supposed to be, surely the common terrors of the lowest assassin, half-brute, half-Caliban, would keep him away from that spot. These thoughts did not occupy more than those few moments in which the violent beating of Talbot Bilstrode's heart held him powerless to move or act. Then, pushing open the gate, he rushed across the tiny garden, trampling recklessly upon the neglected flower beds, and softly tried the door. It was firmly secured, with a heavy chain and padlock. He has got in at the window, then, thought, Mr. Bilstrode. What in Heaven's name could be his motive in coming here? Talbot was right. The little lattice window had been wrenched nearly off its hinges and hung loosely among the tangled foliage that surrounded it. Mr. Bilstrode did not hesitate a moment before he plunged head foremost into the narrow aperture through which the softie must have found his way, and scrambled as he could into the little room. The lattice, strained still farther, dropped with a crashing noise behind him, but not soon enough to serve as a warning for Stephen Hargraves, who appeared upon the lowest step of the tiny corkscrew staircase at the same moment. He was carrying a tallow candle in a battered tin candlestick in his right hand, and he had a small bundle under his left arm. His white face was no wider than usual, but he presented an awfully corpse-like appearance to Mr. Bilstrode, who had never seen him or noticed him before. The softie recoiled with a gesture of intense terror as he saw Talbot and a box of Lucifer matches which he had been carrying in the candlestick rolled to the ground. What are you doing here? asked Mr. Bilstrode sternly. And why did you come in at the window? I warn't doing no wrong, softie whined piteously, and it ain't your business neither, he added, with a feeble attempt at insolence. It is my business. I am Mr. Malish's friend in relation, and I have reason to suspect that you are here for no good purpose, answered Talbot. I insist upon knowing what you came for. I haven't come here to see a lot, anyhow, said Mr. Hargraves. There's nothing here but chairs and tables. It ain't likely I've come after them. Perhaps not, but you have come after something, and I insist upon knowing what it is. You wouldn't come to this place unless you had a very strong reason for coming. What have you got there? Mr. Bilstrode pointed at the bundle carried by the softie. Stephen Hargraves' small, red-brown eyes evaded those of his questioner, and made believe to mistake the direction in which Talbot looked. What have you got there? repeated Mr. Bilstrode. You know well enough what I mean. What have you got there in that bundle under your arm? The softie clutched convulsively at the dingy bundle, and glared at his questioner with something of the savage terror of some ugly animal at bay, except that in his brutalized manhood he was more awkward and perhaps more repulsive than the ugliest of lower animals. It's not to you, sir, nor to anybody else, he muttered sulkily. I suppose a poor chap may fetch his few bits of clothes without being called like this. What clothes? Let me see the clothes. No, I won't. They're not to you. It's only an old waistcoat, as would give me by one of the lads in the stables. A waistcoat? cried Mr. Bilstrode. Let me see it this instant. A waistcoat of yours has been particularly inquired for, Mr. Hargraves. It's a chocolate waistcoat with yellow stripes and brass buttons. Unless I'm very much mistaken. Let me see it. Talbot Bilstrode was almost breathless with excitement. The softie stared aghast at the description of his waistcoat. But he was too stupid to comprehend instantaneously the reason for which this garment was wanted. He recoiled for a few paces, and then made a rush toward the window, but Talbot's hands closed upon his collar and held him as if in a vice. You'd better not trifle with me, cried Mr. Bilstrode. I've been accustomed to deal with refractory sepoys in India, and I've had a struggle with a tiger before now. Show me the waistcoat. I won't. By the heaven above us you shall. I won't. The two men closed with each other in a hand-to-hand struggle. Powerful as the soldier was, he found himself more than matched by Stephen Hargraves, whose thick-set frame, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms were almost herculean in their build. The struggle lasted for a considerable time, or for a time that seemed considerable to both of the combatants. But at last it drew toward its termination, and the air of all the Bilstrodes, the commander of squadrons of horse, the man who had done battle with the bloodthirsty Sikhs, and ridden against the black mouths of the Russian cannon at Balaklava, felt that he could scarcely hope to hold out much longer against the half-witted hanger-on of the malished stables. The horny fingers of the softie were upon his throat, the long arms of the softie were writhing round him, and in another moment Talbot Bilstrode lay upon the floor of the North Lodge, with the softie's knee planted upon his heaving chest. Another moment, and in the dim moonlight, the candle had been thrown down and trampled upon in the beginning of the scuffle, the air of Bilstrode castle saw Stephen Hargrave sumbling with his disengaged hand in his breast-pocket. One moment more, and Mr. Bilstrode heard that sharp metallic noise only associated with the opening of a clasp-knife. Ice hissed the softie, with his hot breath close upon the fallen man's cheek. You wanted to see the waistcoat, did you? But you shan't, for I'll serve you as I served him. Tain't likely I'll let you stand between me and two thousand pound. Talbot Raleigh Bilstrode had a faint notion that a broad sheffield blade flashed in the silvery moonlight. But at this moment his senses grew confused under the iron grip of the softie's hand, and he knew little, except that there was a sudden crashing of glass behind him, a quick trampling of feet, and a strange voice roaring some sea-faring oath above his head. The suffocating pressure was suddenly removed from his throat. Someone or something was hurled into a corner of the little room, and Mr. Bilstrode sprang to his feet, a trifle dazed and bewildered, but quite ready to do battle again. Who is it? he cried. It's me, Samuel Protter. Answered the voice that had uttered that dreadful sea-faring oath. You were pretty nigh done for, mate, when I came aboard. Tain't the first time I've been up here after dark, taken a quiet stroll in a pipe, before turning in over yonder. Mr. Protter indicated donkaster by a backward jerk of his thumb. I'd been watching the light from a distance till it went out suddenly five minutes ago. Then I came up close to see what was the matter. I don't know who you are or what you are or why you've been quarreling, but I know you've been pretty near as nigh to your death tonight as ever that chap was in the wood. The waistcoat, gasped Mr. Bilstrode, let me see the waistcoat. He sprang once more upon the softie, who had rushed toward the door and was trying to beat out the panel with his iron-bound clog. But this time Mr. Bilstrode had a stalwart ally in the merchant-captain. A bit of rope comes uncommon handy in these cases, said Sam El Protter, for which reason I always make a point of carrying it somewhere about me. He plunged up to his elbow in one of the capacious pockets of his tourist pegtops and produced a short coil of tarry rope. As he might have lashed a seaman to a mast in the last crisis of a wreck, so he lashed Mr. Stephen Hargraves now, binding him right and left until the struggling arms and legs and writhing trunk were feigned to be still. Now, if you want to ask him any questions, I'll make no doubt he'll answer him, said Mr. Protter politely. He'll find him a deal quieter after that. I can't thank you now, Talot answered hurriedly. There'll be time enough for that, by and by. Aye-aye, to be sure, mate, growled the captain. No thanks is needed where no thanks is due. Is there anything else I can do for you? Yes, a good deal presently, but I must find this waistcoat first. Where did he put it, I wonder? Stay, I'd better try and get a light. Keep your eye upon that man while I look for it. Captain Protter only nodded. He looked upon his scientific lashing of the softie as a triumph of art, but he hovered near his prisoner in compliance with Talbot's request, ready to fall upon him if he should make any attempt to stir. There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. Bolstrode to find the elucifers and candlestick after a few minutes' search. The candle was not improved by having been trodden upon, but Talbot contrived to light it, and then set to work to look for the waistcoat. The bundle had rolled into a corner. It was tightly bound with a quantity of whip-cord, and was harder than it could have been had it consisted solely of the waistcoat. Hold the light for me while I undo this, Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. Protter's hand. He was so impatient that he could scarcely wait while I cut the whip-cord about the bundle with a softie's huge clasp knife which he had picked up while searching for the candle. I thought so, he said, as he unrolled the waistcoat. The money's here. The money was there, in a small, rushel-eather pocket-book in which Aurora had given it to the murdered man. If there had been any confirmation needed for this fact, the savage yell of rage which broke from Stephen's lips would have afforded that confirmation. It's the money, cried Talbot Bolstrode. I call upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you may be, that I find this waistcoat in this pocket-book in the possession of this man, and that I take them from him after a struggle in which he attempts my life. Aye-aye, I know him well enough, muttered the sailor. He's a badden, and him and me have had a stand further before this. And I call upon you to bear witness that this man is the murder of James Conyers. What? roared Samuel Protter. Him? And why, the double-dyed villain! It was him that put it into my head that it was my sister Eliza's chit— That it was Mrs. Melish! Yes, yes, I know, but we've got him now. Will you run to the house and send some of the men to fetch a constable while I stop here? Mr. Protter assented willingly. He had assisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea of what the business was to lead to. Now he was quite as much excited as Mr. Bolstrode. He scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the tunnels, guided by the lighted windows of the groom's dormitories. Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. He stood at a few paces from the softie, watching Mr. Hargraves as he nod savagely at his bonds in the hope, perhaps, of setting himself free. I shall be ready for you, the young Cornishman said quietly, whenever you're ready for me. A crowd of grooms and hangers on came with lanterns before the constable could arrive, and foremost among them came Mr. John Mellish, very noisy and very unintelligible. The door of the lodge was opened, and they all burst into the little chamber where, heedless of grooms, gardeners, stableboys, hangers on and rabble, John Mellish fell on his friend's breast, and wept aloud. CHAPTER FOURTY L'Envoi. What more have I to tell of this simple drama of domestic life? The end has come. The element of tragedy which has been so intermingled in the history of a homely Yorkshire squire and his wife, is henceforth to be banished from the record of their lives. The dark story which began in Aurora Floyd's folly, and culminated in the crime of a half-witted serving man, has been told from the beginning to the end. It would be worse than useless to linger upon the description of a trial which took place at York at the migral massacises. The evidence against Stephen Hargraves was conclusive, and the gallows outside York Castle ended the life of a man who had never been either helped or comforted to any one of his fellow-creatures. There was an attempt made to set up a plea of irresponsibility upon the part of the softee, and the subricade which had been given him was urged in his defence. But a set of matter-of-factory men, looking at the circumstances of the murder, saw nothing in it but a most cold-blooded assassination perpetrated by a wretch whose sole motive was gain, and the verdict which found Stephen Hargraves guilty was tampered by no recommendation to mercy. The condemned murderer protested his innocence up to the night before his execution, and upon that night made a full confession of his crime, as is generally the custom of his kind. He related how he had followed James Conyos into the wood, upon the night of his assassination with Aurora, and how he had watched and listened during the interview. He had shot the trainer in the back, while Mr. Conyos sat by the water's edge looking over the notes in the pocketbook, and he had used a button of his waistcoat instead of wadding, not finding anything else suitable for the purpose. He had hidden the waistcoat and pocketbook in a rat hole in the wainscot of the murdered man's chamber, and, being dismissed from the lodge suddenly, had been compelled to leave his booty behind him rather than excite suspicion. It was thus that he had returned upon the night on which Talbot found him, meaning to secure his price and start for Liverpool at six o'clock the following morning. Aurora and her husband left Malish Park immediately after the committal of the safety to York prison. They went to the south of France, accompanied by Archibald Floyd, and once more travelled together through scenes which were overshadowed by no sorrowful association. They lingered long at knees, and here Talbot and Lucy joined them, with an impedimental train of luggage and servants and an Normandy nurse with a blue-eyed girl baby. It was at knees that another baby was born, a black-eyed child, a boy, I believe, but wonderfully like that solemn-faced infant which Mrs. Alexander Floyd carried to the Weedot Banker two and twenty years before at Feldenwoods. It is almost super-irrigatory to say that Samuel Prutter, the sea captain, was cordially received by Hardy John Malish and his wife. He is to be a welcome visitor at the park whenever he pleases to come. Indeed, he is homeward bound from Barbados at this very time. His cabin presses filled to overflowing with presence which he is carrying to Aurora and the Way of Chilis preserved in vinegar, guava jelly, the strongest Jamaican rum, and other trifles suitable for a lady's acceptance. It may be some comfort to the gentlemen in Scotland Yard to know that John Malish acted liberally to the detective and gave him the full reward, although Talbot Burlstraude had been the captain of the softie. So we leave Aurora a little changed, a shade less defiantly bright, perhaps, but unspeakably beautiful and tender, bending over the cradle of her firstborn. And though there are alterations being made at Malish, and news boxes for brood mayors building upon the site of the North Lodge, and a subscription ten-gallop being laid across Harpers Common, I doubt if my herring will care so much for horse-flesh, or take quite so keen an interest in wait-for-age races as compared to handicaps as she has done in the days that are gone. End of Chapter 40 by Mary Elizabeth Bratton