THE WEIRD SISTERS

A ROMANCE,

By RICHARD DOWLING,

Author of " The Mystery ok Killard."

PART U :THE TOWERS s SILENCE

CHAPTER VII,

"WAT GKEY'S BUSINESS X OIANCE,

GREY found his mother in the front par lour of her own house, bhe was as bright, intelligent as ever, and put down the "Times" and took olf her spectacles as he entered.

"Henry," she exclaimed, as he came in, " what is the matter ? You are looking like a ghost."

"It is only that I have seen one, mother," he said wearily, tenderly, as he kissed her, put his arms round her, and placed her in a chair.

" Seen what ?" she demanded, looking up impatiently at her stalwart son.

" a ghost, mother."

"Nonsense, Henry. Ot late I see but little of you ; and when 1 do see you, you are full of mysteries, only lit for semps tresses in penny parts. You nugho cot to treat me as if I wanted to be roused into interest iv your affairs by secrets and sur prises."

She patted her foot impatiently on the floor, and looked with vivacious reproach in his face.

He placed his hand gently but impres sively on her shoulder, and said, looking down calmly from his large blue frank eyes into her swift bright grey eyes :

" lam not, mother, practising any art upon you ; I am practising a great art upon myself."

She now saw something serious was coming or was in his mind ; a.d while she did not allow her courage to decline, or the resolution cf her look to diminish, she asked simply,

" And what is that art, Henry J"

"That of enduring the comp.ny of a villain in the presecce ot the person"! most respect ou earth."

She looked round the room h istily. " He Can't meau this place," she thought, " for we are alone." Raising impatient eyes to his, she said, "I am listening.' Who is tnis villain?"

"Your son."

•'Say that again, my hearing " She paused and put her hand behind her ear, and bent forward her wrinkled neck to ■catch the words.

"In your presence, mother, I &sa trying "to endure the presence of yeur villainous son, my villainous self."

"Sit down, Henry," she said very ■quietly.

He sat Sown en a chair a little distance in front of her.

She thought, " His father nevi-c told me there was a taint of insanity on his side cf the family, and 1 know there was none on mine. This is terrible, but I must keep •cool. Perhaps it will p.iss away We shall have tee best advice. de looks haggard. The wisest thing is to make little of what he says." Then she said aloud, " Well, Kenry, I suipo-e you are going to tell mc something el-e?"

"I am going tc tell you. mother, till man durst utter, ihe un«peakiib:e must remain unsaid."

He leaned his elbow en a small table, and supported his brow with his thumb and forefinger, shading his eyes with the fingers and the palm of the hand.

She sat upright on her chair. It was an ceasy chair, but she disdained the support of elbows or back. She thought ot his words, "4The unspeakable must remain unsaid." '• My son I my son i what has turned his poor head?" Aloud she said, " Cell i_e all you please, Henry." " It is so cool and sweet aed pure here, mother, in this house of yours, in your presence ; I would give all ihe wdrlti if I might live here."

"Then why not come ? Thaigreat eizpty house is too much for you, and you are growing morbid there. Come here at once, and it will be like old times -to you and me."

" I am not 6c lonely in that house as you might think," be said, with a gnastly cge. traction ot the lips and a shudder.

" But you see no one now. You. have ikj company, and even at its be-t aud orightest it was a dismal old barracks. Suppose, Henry, I live with you ?" He looked up suddenly, fiercely, and cried in a loud voice :

"No, no; you must not think of that. "That is the la.t thing likely to happen. How could you think of such a thing?" His head was clearly cone. Fancy his resisting such an offer from her in such a passionate, ill-tempered way. " Theu come and live with me ; the iso lation of that house is preying upon you." He had dropped his head once more to its old position.

"I am not so much alone there as you might suppose."

*■ I thougho you saw nobody lately." " But I am often, when at hime now, in the company of Bee in her better days." What splendid self-torture this was ! To dance thus before his mother on the brink of a precipice she did not see, was exhilarating. It was almost worth com mitting a crime to enjoy the c mtrast be tween the ideas these words brought up in his mind and his mother's.

" A bad sign," thought the old woman. "A bad sign of reasou, when the mind of a man of bis age is always with the past." She said : " I think it would be much better for you to .shut up the Manor and come here. If you take my advice, you would most certt.iuly leave that hateful hou?e. It was all voiy well when you were strong and happy to call parts ot your house by horrible names, but when you are ill and weak and nervous you get superstitious, and full of foolish notionß about those things you have been playing with." " Jjo you know, mother, I would not ex. chauge'my Towerl of Silenro for any Uastle in England at this moment ; no, not for the fee-simple of Yorkshire." ' The tone, the words, and the awful smile that accompanied them, cowed the spirit of the woman. "My God 1" she thought, "this is worse than death. JtJis reason is toppling, toppling."

She did not speak, but waited for him to go on, " But, mother, there is another reason for my not selling tho Manor." " And what is that, Henry?" " I am thinking of getting married." "Married ! Married !"

" Yes. Am Iso old or sn feehle that I should not think of marrying again?" he asked, with a clumsy attempt at a smile as le half uncovered his pallid'face. " No," she answered slowly. " Then why are you astonished?" [ , 4 _ 1 did not say I was astonished."

" £*o, mother, but you looked astonished; tell me why? Why were you astoni-hed at the idea of my marrying a second time ? Do you know any reason why I should not ?" This was a fierce pleasure. It was like stirring up a sleeping lion when there was no chance of escape save through a small door, before reaching which he might, if he awoke, spring upon you, seize you by the back, and batter out your brains with one swing against the bars. It was like mounting a parapet under fire, and stand ing there thirty seconds, watch in hand, expecting to be struck, and trying to antici pate where. " Reason for your not marrying ! IV o, I know nothing to prevent your marrying." She did not care to excite him in his very critical mental condition by reference to the little comfort he had derived from his experience of wedlock. "Well, mother, it is not only t^at no cause exists why I should not marry, but an absolute necessity—a necessity there is uo euvading makes the step inevitable." He had raised his head from his hand aud was looking in her face.

" You have always had good reasons for your acts," she said, humouring bis whim.

" And, moreover, it is imperatively nocesvary I shall marry one particular woman, and no other." "What! in love again already!" ex claimed Mrs Grey with a desperate attempt nt archness.

The attempt failed utterly, and her face wore a look of anxiety and pain. It was now clear her son did not suffer from mere hallacinatioa ; this was a break-up of the whole intellect.

The man was so lost to external things he did not notice the change in his mother's face. He was deliberately re hearsing aloud his plan of campaign, and counting his forces and chances. He had almost forgotten he addressed his mother.

He knew he might speak out with safety. This was the first time he had dared to give utterance to his thoughts iv the pres ence of another. There was intoxication in the fearless recital of his case, and, with his bodily eyes indifferent to the things around.him, he abandoned himself to the delight of speaking his secret thought, and observing how the uttered words lightened his burden.

" You are curious to know her name?' he asked in a mechanical tone.

" I should like to hear who it is," she re. turned.

" It's a very good name. It will bring nolciiscredit on. the name of Grey. Guess." -.-..

"Indeed, I cannot."

" Maud Midharst."

'■ Maud Midharst!" relaxing the rigidity of her pose, and falling for support against the back of her chair—" Maud Midharst 1" she repeated, in a tone of dismay. For a moment she had forgotten she was listening to a man suffering from severe mental dis turbance. Instantly almost she recovered herself, and fixing eyes now full of tender ness and pity upon her son, resumed her upright attitude, and continued her former plan of humouring him. " fche is very beautiful, very amiable, and very rich," the woman said.

" She is very beautiful, very amiable, and very poor," he said impressively.

Again Mrs Grey started. His tones were not those of a man of unsound mind ; and although his face looked pale and worn, and there was a queer expression in ihe

eyes, the whole conveyed the idea of

a man overwrought rather than radi cally unsound of head. She was so much thrown oil' her guard that she could not refrain from repeating aloud, " Very poor 1" •• Yes, very poor," he went oa ia the same monotonous voice, and with the same light less face turned to hers. "And it is be cause she is very poor I am going to marry her."

"A regular love 'romance!" cried tbe old lady iv a sprightly voice. The tears

were in her eyes. Her son, her only son, the idol of her life, breaking down thus in his strong manhood! Hard sight for a mother ! How hard to sit still, and seem calm, and watch the light of departing; reason flickering in those large blue eye-, which in the happy warm long ago had looked up to hers as the baby boy lay at her breast.

" A real business romance," he said gravely. " A real business romance." "It must be a romance indeed if you are marrying her because she is poor, for I believe you, Henry, are not rich." She thoaght, " Perhaps it will be best to take an interest in all this. If Ido not he may think I suspect him of being under delusions, and 1 daresay that would make him v/orse."

" The Uaneford Bank is now secure and in a prosperous condition, but I have no thing beyondits prosperity^sotriat.compired with the timo I got the Bank, I am a poor man, for I have lost all my private fortune, uoea it not seem strange to you, mother, that I, a poor man, should aspire to the hand of a baronet's poor daughter?"

" But, Henry, this is a love romance, and in love romances all things are pos sible."

" I have explained to you, mother, that it is a business, and not a love romance. But I have not told you half the romance yet." " E am most anxious to hear it."

" I have never said a word of love to her yet. Ido believe a word of love has never yet been spoken to her, and already there is a rival in the field, so that now we have every element of success." "And who is this rival!" "The new baronet, Sir William Mid harst."

"Sir William Midharst! I thought he was in Egypt."

"He has been, but he got back just in time for Sir Alexander's funeral. He walked to the. funeral with me, came back, and fell in love with his cousin Maud."

" How do you know this ?" " Mrs Graut told me." " And does Mrs Grant know you are in love with Miss Midharst?"

" No, nor any one else." '• I. for instance, know." '' Who told you ?" "You."

" Never."

" He forgets already what he told me a few minutes ago. This is terrible. I shall notbeableto stand it much longer. My poor Wat ; I wonder what has turned his brain ?" the mother thought. She endea voured to keep on her face an expression of vivacious interest.

He spoke again. ' * I never told you I was in love with Maud Midharst. I only told you that it is absolutely necessary I should marry her."

" In some things," the mother thought, "heis as clear as ever. Oi course all this talk of niartying Miss Midharst is the result of some way poor B-.csd.uth affectedhim," she reflected. Aloud she said, " But, Heory, if you do not love her, and if she is poor and you are not rich, why are you compelled to matry her?" " If any one knew the answer to that question, mother, that person could put we iv the dock and convict me of embezzle ment."

She started to her feet aud placed her hand on his, shoulder, and cried In a voice of agony : " My God, my son is mad 1"

Ho rose quietly and put both his hands tenderly on her shoulders, at<d whispered hoarsely in her ear: "I am not mad now. I never was more sane in my life. I was mad when I stole Sir Alexander's savings to the last penny. It was with his money I saved the Bank."

" Great God, what do I hear ?"

" The truth. I am no better than a thief. I have stolen the old man's savings and the young girl's fortune, and unless I marry her, I shall be found out. Did I not tell you I was in the company of a vil li»n when I came in first ? Now you be lieve me "

" And you lied to me when you told me about tbat money from the .Pacific coast ? Ten thousand times better madness than this !"

'■I did."

" You, Henry, my son, lied to me?"

" Yes."

" Understand my question once for all. When you, Heury Grey, told me, your mother, that the Daueford Bank had been saved by money from the Pacific coast, did you lie to me?" " I did."

" Then, sir, leave my presence and my house t>r ever !" " Mother !"

" Go, sir, at once 1"

" Mother, for God's sake ! You do not know all !"

"Go, sir, at once! I do not want to see any more of you—hear any more of you. You have btought disgrace on our honourable name. You had not the cour age to face ruio, but you had the courage to face crime, aud you had the bareness to lie 11 me, i-ir. <-;o, 1 tell you, sir, and let me see you no more. Tet me torget there is a man alive who bears your honourable father's name. Do nor, let me see you again. Do not let me hear of you. You will not go, sir ? Then I shall leave you. R-ttember, we never meet again,"

She swept out of the room.

When she had gone he -tood awhile hold ing his forehead in his hands, then shook himself, left the room, snd drew the front dnor after him with a ln\v laugh, mutter ing :•' And I did not tell her all. I forgot a part."

CHaPTFK VIII. MAKING HOLIDAY,

WHEN Grey awoke the moruiug after the interview with his mother, he felt elmer than usual. He had slept better, and the air of early November was bright and crisp, and wholesome and invigorating. He arse, drew back the curtains, and raised the blind. The leaves were all off tbe trees, and the bright sharp fretwork of oak sprays glittered in the morning sun. Ihe grove was siieut. All its winged lodgerb had long since taken flight in search of food, The glades and caverns of the grove no longer sweltered under cano pies of impenetrable leaves. Aisles, which had been vuuits of sultry gloom in summer, lay partly open to the sky. Here and there the eye cuuld pierce the inter-twiated branches and catch sight of the mounds of red ro.ting leaves.

The grove no longer desired the screen of leaves to hide it from the eyes of man, to cover up the monsters of soft rank vegeta tion that throve and bltated until they burst with the unclean rottenness of excess. All things perishable in the vegetable domain wero now melting down into the ground, there to he antil the spring-hunger of the se:d aud root moved and drank them in, to thrust them once more whence they lay into the sreen-^iving air.

In the warm weather these juice 3, as they move about through the earth, are caught in the Wobs of roots and budding seeds, and are pushed upwards through the crust of earth, and by the sun dyed into a coat of tunny colours to keep excessive heat from the uncer earth.

In the winter they are shorn of their beauty, and thrust down into all the crevices of earth, there .standing incor i upttble sentinels of ice to prevent the pene tration of the cold.

The coming and going of these juice 3 through the mould i.s the respiration of the earth. The breathing of all things grows less frequent as they increase in size. Man breathes twelve timed a minute, the earth once a year. Can the heat of aU earth's time be its share of one fiery expira tion of the sun ?

Grey stood gazing vacantly at the skele ton trees and the mounds of red-yeUow leaves.

Oi lite he had observed that his thoughts came much more slowly than of old, and thi3 was a mercy. This morning they scarcely moved at all. "Like a skeleton," he thought. "The grove is like a skeleton from the bones of which the fle-h has rotted, fallen through, aud is lying dawn there under the ribs." He shuddered, put his hand to his head, muttering : " no, no ; 1 must not think of that ; I must not think of that. I must think of auything but that. Of course, the exposure —it is nearly three months there now—has—hfcS—and there is nothing left but—On, God 1 .ho, no no; I must not think."

It took him a long time to collect his thoughts lattetly. This morning he was much slower than usual. It was those sleepless nights that made him so dull of mornings now. Hs had such thoughts and visions In the night that in the mornings he felt weary, worn out, jaded.

His mother 1

Yes. He had not thought of that until now. That was bad, very bad. These blows were coming too quietly aud t«o heavily, and that one was the heaviest of all. He had sought her iv his sorest trouble, his direst fear, and she had spurned him, cost him off, expelled him from her presence for ever. She—she —she had been cruel to him —cruel to him. She was all now left to him in the world. De had squandered everything else iv the world but her love aud nis love for her. He weut to her in his direst need, and contessed a small crime and a little Am, an embezzlement aud a lie ouly, aud she bad spurned him—more it seemed to him, for the lie thau the embezzle ment. This was too bad. if she had spurned bim for these, what would Bhe do if he had told her of—of the other thing? Called the pol.ee perhaps. Well, after all, the police were not so terrible to him now, for there was no one in all the world he cared foe who cared for him, and he was free.

All things had goue well with him until now, until the funeral of the baronet. Since then be had learned he was not the absolute guardian of Maud, he had found out Maud had an admirer, and he had lost tho alt'ection and esteem of his mother for ever.

The blows were too fast and too heavy. What should he do? He could not go ou in this way. He should break down if he did not get relief. There was no use in goinx to the Castle while that young fellow was there, and even if the young fellow Jtorc gone, the thinker was in no state of mind ta push forward his fortunes with Matu't. Indeed, there was absolute danger in «oin;,' near the Castle. In his present state of mind he might betray his designs ou Maud, and that would be ruin beyond retrieval. That young fellow was not likely to propose to the orphan a few days after her father's' death. He, the thinker, would take a week's holiday, and come back invigorated for the game.

That day he went to the Bank and arranged everything for an absence of a week or ten days. Ho wrote a note to Miss Midharst, saying he was compelled by ill-health to leave Daneford for a week or so. He expressed his hope that while he was away Mrs Grant would advise in any little matter on which Mies Midharst might.in the usual course look to him for guidance ; as to ony matter of im portance, they would have his addreis at the Bank, and a me«*enger should call every day at the Castle for any message, letter, or telegram she might please to send to him. He would send h«r his address; bnt he did not know how long he might stay in Loudon, wheie he wua going first, as change was what he ueedad most

To Sir W'lliam ho wrote courteously and blandly to the effect that he hoped Sir William would not forget bin promise of drawing on the Daneford Bank for the twenty thousand spoken of, and any fur ther sum the baronet might stand in need of. The banker regretted that he was ob liged to go away so noon after ihe sad event at the Castle ; but he was ab-olutely done up, and rest was the ouly thing to restore him to viaour. ihe writer hoped to be back iv Daneford ia time to say God speed fir William, on the baronet's setting out far Egypt. While the banker was away, Mr Mat'hew Aldiidge. mana ger of the Daueford Bank, would be de lighted to do anything hi his power for fair William.

Grey wrote a few lines to Mrs Grant. That note was the shortest of the three, and took him the longest time to write. He tore up two copies. Nothing could be simpler or more guileless than the one he sent. It ran:

" Dear Mrs Grant,

" I am obliged l.y my health to take a few d»ys' rest in a new scene. I hope to be no longer thau a week or ten days from home. I hope you will not think absenting myself so soon after ;:ir t lexau der's death shows wan- ol dtvoiion to bir Alexander's child. My first duty in lite it to her._ I need not s»y I leave her with implicit confidence in your care, i know you will always be loyal 10 the wishes ot her father, herself, and yours very faithfully,

Henry Walter Grky."

When these letters had been disposed of and a few other busine.-s matters attended to, he took train for the south east and arrived in London that night.

The journey fatigued him ; and change of air, even wh n from a "Oo<i into a worse atmosphere, being beneficial, he slept Boundly that night, and awoke with less sense of distraction, less difficulty in collect ing his thoughts.

In Grey's youth he had spent much time in London, and knew portion- o! the towD, those west of Tottenham Court I'oad and Trafalgar Square, very well. But he had little acquaintance with the city, and none with the east. He had been frequently in the city oa banking business, and knew the ten streets confluent round the Bank. But the bulk of the city was an unknown land to him.

Chanpe was whit he sought. Novelty without solitnde. Therefore, instead of the quiet hotel in Jermyn-street, where be usually put up, he found him*e!f this morn ing in a large city hotel not a bow-shot from the cathedral of S>. P-ul.

A while he lay awake listening to the tremulous mutter nf the city traffic. What a contrast, thee groans of wheels and clatters of hoof*, with the morning silence about the Mi nor House! Here^ the walls shock, the an fluttered sigainst the window-pane 3 -with the ?.way of bodies moving ceaseles-iy hither and thither. There, no soutid came iv upon the desert realms of the morning silence but the faiuc twitter of a bird <.r the f-r-ofT crack of a carter's whip or a sportsman's gun.

Would it not be better for hira to stop here always?

Here were no suggestions of the disas trous past. No one keew him here. Sup pose he burnt do^o tho Manor House, took twenty thousand pounds out ot the Bank, changed hi- name, disguised him self, and came to live in the middle of roar ing London ! Ambition he would abandon. Blows had come so heavily and so quickly, the ambition had hee;, beaten out c f him. Security and peace were what he yearned for. Security and peice. Peace.

If he lived in tuis «re»t whirlpool iv the ocean of Man, the shoutings or his fel lows would drown tho memories of his ears. Who could he.:r the whisper ings of a woman's dress ia the tumult of this great city, with its turmoil of multitudinous wheel- and clangour of in numerable bells? He:ehe could take his ease for the rest of hi- life, and drown tho vague hideous whisters of tho dead in the loud-toned wrangles of the living.

There was, however, no necessity for his changing his name or adoptiug disguises. He had some days to rest and recruit. When these had passed it would be time enough for him to think of precautions.

He went out attar bteakfa-t, and strolled along streets he bad ne«er been in before.

He moved west through streets running in perplexing zigzags, a little to tho north;of Cheapside, Newgate-street, and Hulbor'n. He strolled slo«l», looking in at shop windows, and taking interest iv the disputes of ragged boys and the bargainlog of slat tern women at the doors of slopshops and marine store dealers. He was not used to such scenes, ami they tnok his miod off his own affairs and couditinn better than the deserted parks or richer streets. It seemed to him as though be had already severed his connection with Daneford, and lived emancipated from the pasr.

At last he came to nv. open spaco, in the centre of which .toed a large hcary looking building he had never seeu before. Passing along the southern side of this open ep»ee, he came to the entrance of tbat building.

lie thought : " Often ::s I have been in London, I have never seen even ,the out side of this before. It v.ill be a capital place to spend a few hours."

He entered tho enclosure through the Bmall gate, and walked slowly up to the deep portico. Under this f ortico he stooa awhile, watching the pigeons and the people go In and out. iiien turning his back upon the dayiight, he entered the British Museum, that storehouse for the unolaimed personal prop rty of intestate centuries and[forgottco kind's.

Passing slowly through the hall of busts, he reached the Egyptian Hcom. He had no great love of the a.u.ique, no [great curiosity in people who staggered through the dark approaches leading up to the still, unspiritualised, unexciting Greek art. He never took much interest in art, He had been many tim. s to the Academy, He had enjoyed going; but it is doubt ful if he were offered tt> be allowed to go through the room alone he would have accepted the privilege.

To-day Egypt had a new meaning aud a new attraction for him. Prom Egypt that young man had come unexpectedly to thwart his plan-. To Egypt that young man was goimi back again.

What preposterous and foolish figures those around were i What impossible creatures 1 Cat-headed men ! Was this the kind of country that young man had come from ? Alligators, too, and crocodiles! Tombs. The Egyptians gave mure honour

to their illustrious dead than we do to our living poor. With them a dead lion was much better than a living dog. Egypt must have been a land ot monsters, fool*, and tombs.

Grey was now leaning on the rail which protected a sarcophagus of polished black stone. His eyes were fixed vacantly on the coffin.

"The Egyptians," he followed on think ing, " preserved their dead for ever ; the- Greeks destroyed them at once ; and we put them underground, and let them shift for themselves.

"Put them under ground— not all I" Ho stopped thinking, and looked around cautiously. There were no protecting noises here. Infrequent footsteps, and occasionally a cough, were the ooJy sounds invading the dull gloomy gallery. Coming. up towards the sarcophagus by which he stood was a middle-aged portly man. leading two fair flaxen-haired children by the hand, The man was describing the various objects they passed. "Sometimes we don't let the living shift for themselves, we nhift for them ; and sometimes without putting the dead in the ground we leave those whom we shifted out of life to shift for themselves un tuned."

*he man leading the little cirls resched the sarcophagus. Ho stopped the children, and, pointing to the coffin, said :

" This was King Pharoah's favourite coffin. When he was quite a yoang niau he contracted the habit of being buried in this caffin, and as he grew old»r he gave way more and more to tnis degrading habit. Stop, let me look closer. l*pon my word and honour, I have made a mistake. I see by one of the mortuaiy caids issued at the death, and found when they dug up this coffin out of the Nile, the body was that of one Ibis Cheops, who flourished a long time ago. When he was done nourishing they put him in here. Flourishing long ago was trreatly admired; we solicitors are dead against it now. Let me see any of my copying clerks flourishing, and he may take down his hat and overcoat aud go aud enjoy life."

"Is that in the catalogue, all about this stone hearse?" asked oae of the child ren.

"No, child."

"Then how do yon know, uacle? You told us you were never here before."

" My dear child, you forget I am a solici tor ; and once a man has anything to co with the Court of Chancery he is up to every mean dodge of human nature, lfc isn't to cay that the muddle-headed aucient Egyptians could deceive or overreach him in any way, but he is more than a match at cheating for the modern Greeks; and that's about as stiff a competitive examin ation in roguery as anyone can pass. I beg yoor pardon, sir ; Mr Grey, I think of Daneford . Am I right ?"

CHAPI'KK IX. THE END OP THE HOLIDAY

Grey looked up with an uneasy start and a sudden pallor.

" You do not remember me. My name is Barraclough. I am London repre sentative of Mr Evans, your Danetcrd solicitor."

"If course, of course. This is about the last place in the world I should think of meeting you, Mr Barraclough."

" 1 may cay the same of you, Mr Grey, Indeed few men—none, practically speak ing—of our age come here, unless special ists of some kind."

" I have never been here beforo,"

"Nor have I. Tbat fact explains out presence here to-day at our time ot life, as a rule, beys aro brought here when young, under the Impression they are going to h-ve a treat; they find the thing a pedantic stuck. up bore, get disgusted with the place, and swear an oath (most likely the only oue they swear and keep)' that they will not enter this building again. Ever after in their memory this building teems the sour, old, crusty, maiden aunt of the sights of London. Jlow, my dears, just walk on a little before us ; I want to *peak to this gentleman. Mind to keep a shatp look-out for Pharaoh's favourite coflin. I'm sure it's somewhere hereabouts, You'll know it at once by not being ablo to distinguish it from the others until you shut one eye and keep the other fiaed on tho Kov.tta stone, because that is, as you know, tho only key we have to the hiero glyphics. I think they keep the Bosetta •tone in one of the cellars, for fear of ihe daylight fading the inscription. You shall go down and see it presently ; but now run on, and look up the coflin. My nieces, Mr Gr*y," he explained, as the children with bewildered gravity walked on. " I live quite close—Bloomsbury Squore. My wife had to go somewhere or other to-day, and asked me to take the children out for a few hoars ; so I left word at the office I should be here if they wanted me. You are not looking quite so well as tbe last time I saw yon."

" I have not been very well ol late, and came np here for a rest from business."

" I d»n't know how you bankers live. If I were one, I should worry myself to death in forty-eight hours. I should always be thinking my clerks were pocketing hundred pound note*, or burglars were breaking into thcstroag-box."

Grey winced a little, but said nothing, The other ran on :

"lam sure thU meeting in most lucky. Will you din* with ma to-day? I got the instructions from Evana this morniDg, and will do the best I can, you may ba sure. I have not, of course, been able to do any thing in the matter as yet. It will take time. Dine with me, and we can talk the matter over. We shall ba quite alone—no one but my wife. We can »xchaDge views over a cigar."

Grey felt perplexed and confounded. He had not the least idea of what liarraclough referred to. «Jould it be his head had been so confused ho bad gone to Evans, given him important instructions, and then for gotten all about them ? The thing must be of consequence. There would be no need to d'aenssa tr fli.

It would not, however, do to confess hia ignorance or forgetfulneas to this man.

" Can wc not speak of it here !" Grey asked.

Barraclough looked around, shrugged hia shoulders in deprecation ot tho place, and said : " 1 think business always comes best after dessert. Do dine with me. I promise you an excellent cigar."

Grey was sorely perplexed. He had no hiut of what those instructions were. It was absolutely necessary he should find out, This was not a fitting place for a business chat. The idea of dining with anyone was intolerable.

" I am very much obliged to you, and should be very pleased to dine with you, but I—l really cannot. I must keep as quiet as possible. You will excuse my not going ; and, aa a favour, tell me now what you have to say." "Certainly, certainly. Let me see— let me see. Of course, Mr Grt;y, in a matter of this kind we must be business-like, and tako into consideration facts we might otherwise leave out ot sight."

"Of course." What could be coming ? This was a very grave prelude. "You are executor and trufctee to the

will ?"

STAB SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, JULY 28, 1885.

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