Denbighshire Free Press

[ALL RfGHTS lt]?PXRVIRD. j THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR. By ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW, Authors of "The Shulamite," "Eve—and the Law," "An Unwilling Adventuress," I "Gilded London," "Transformation of Anthea," &c. CHAPTER XI. Sara Modjcski stood in front of her dressing- table, surveying herself curiously in the glass. It was the evening of the day on which she had rescued Roger Hardy and had her memor- able interview with Paul Stavensky but she had promised herself yet another adventure. She had told the Russian that she would go and see Gerard Arnold on the morrow, but she had decided in her own mind that she would see David Cosham tirst. Now that the opportunity had come to face her brother's murderer, Sara Modjeski was not the woman to shrink from it. She looked at the address she had found in the pocket-book, her lips curling in a smile of triumph, even as Queen i Eleanor's lips might have curled when she first held the clue of silk in her hand that I would lead her to the bower of her rival, Fair Rosamond. "Everything comes to him who knows but how to wait," muttered Sara to herself; then she thrust the little scrap of paper back into the bosom of her frock. She had dressed very plainly for this evening expedition to Soho, merely shrouding herself in a long black gown, and wearing a small toque, over which she fastened a thick veil. She formed in her plain and sombre attire a curious contrast to her room, for there luxury and a love of colour predominated. The toilet-table gleamed with silver and crystal,, and a large scent spray caught the eye. A big pot of hyacinths stood on a small table, and the heavy fragrance oi the flowers diffused itself through the room. A bright fire burnt on the hearth, and Sara, moving towards the fireplace, held out her hands to the warm glow of the flame, for she was a chilly mortal and loved sunshine and heat. A rich satin bedspread hung over the couch, a bedspread elaborately trimmed with I lace, and a Japanese kimono tossed carelessly over a chair betrayed Sara's love for personal luxury and her almost barbaric joy in colour. She was also a woman of iron purpose, and something of this betrayed itself in her face when, abandoning her position by the fire, she moved slowly and deliberately across the room to her wardrobe. It was a handsome wardrobe, richly carved. Sara opened a drawer and drew out a small revolver, almost a toy one, and vet it had done deadly work in its time. "One never knows," muttered the woman, "that this may not be wanted; and, any way, Soho is not a pretty neighbourhood for a woman to be wandering in alone at night." Sara drew her cloak more closely round hei shapely shoulders, then flicked off the electric light, and a second later was making her wa) down the corridor. She stopped outside Rogei Hardy's bedroom and listened for a second al the door. But no sound broke the silence. An old Russian woman was sitting up witt. the patient, a woman who had been the nurs< of Sara's husband, and on whose devotior. and silence she could absolutely rely. She had been with Sara for years, playing the part of housekeeper and maid, and th< cook and parlourmaid were secretly somewhat afraid of old Katroni. She lived in a worlc I of which they had no knowledge, a dim, I troubled world of her own. She knew whai it had been to live under the shadow of few and to gaze into the darkness of the valley of de^th. Of the bright side of life she knew nothing, and less than nothing, and her eyes were as sombre as her speech was slow. "Katroni! Sara whispered the old woman's name and half opened the door. Katroni rose from her seat by the bedside and came forward to greet her mistress. She evinced no surprise at Sara's outdoor attire. She had lived with the other long enough to know that she disliked being questioned, also that she was utterly reckless and determined, and feared neither man nor fiend. "How is the patient getting on, Katroni ? Sara whispered in low tones. "Ho seems to be sleeping peacefully enough. "Yes, the young man will get on," replied Katroni, quietly; "he has youth and strength to help him. Have no fear, little mistress, I that he will not recover." She bent down and kissed Sara's hand, with the peculiar almost pathetic devotion of the Russian peasant. "God be with us all to-night," she added, gently; then crossed herself on the breast. Her voice was peculiarly sad and slow, the voice of one who has passed the greater part of her life amongst the plains of silence. Sara nodded her head curtly in answer to the other's benediction; then, moved by a rare impulse, she bent forward and kissed old Katroni lightly on the forehead. "Good- bye," she said, her voice curiously soft and gentle; "you have served me very faithfully and very truly." The two women looked at each other for one second, and it was a second of intense emotion for both then Sara laughed, and the spell was broken. "Why, we might be taking an eternal farewell of each other," she remarked, lightly; and so saying she swept away. It was horribly cold in the street, and Sara shivered a little as the first breath of cold air smote against her face. Sleet was falling and the streets were damp and slushy, and the canal looked dark and sluggish. Sara thought how cold the water would be, how stained, how muddy! She walked on for a few I yards, holding her skirts tightly round her, battling against the wind and the sleet. She was a woman who objected strongly to physical discomfort, and she hated the damp chill which seemed to be striking through her clothes and numbing her warm flesh. She was thankful to see a passing cab, and hailed the hanso n at once. She got in and called cut to the in an to pull the glass down, for the fact that the roads were slippery and the horse very likely to fall made no impression on Sara; all that she desired was the immediate comfort of the moment. She thought the. driver appeared surprised when she gave him the name of the street she desired to drive to in Soho, for he repeated the direction doubt- fully after she had shouted it through the little trap-door. "Don't you know your way there ? asked Sara, rather imperiously. "Yes, lady, but it ain't a nice neighbour- hood," replied the man. "That doesn't matter," answered Sara: and she laughed, for physical danger always excited and exhilarated her. "All you have to do is to drive me there, and as quickly as you can. "Right you are, lady," replied the man, and his voice expressed the dawning con- viction that his fare could take good care of herself then he whipped up his horse sharply, and the cab tore on. Sara leant back against the cushions and abandoned herself to a feeling of repose. She felt as if she had shut out the cold and damp, and she began to appreciate the warmth of her heavy cloak and the comfort of her black fur muff. She glanced through the cab window at the streets, the long, melancholy streets of Maida Vale, and thought how sombre and dreary they loolied. And yet tragedies and comedies were being played out in every one of the houses, she reflected, the lank, melancholy houses she was passing by so rapidly. By a strong effort of will the woman centred her attention on the ever- changing scene, and did not allow herself to reflect or to think. She was bound on a desperate and dangerous errand, and she knew it. Thinking might only make her nervous, and would any way harass and distress her. The cab turned into Oxford street after traversing through dull and dreary streets, and Sara smiled as a child might at the tudden blaze of light. She liked the great crowd moving along, the crowd of shop-boys and shop-girls who had come, despite the sleet and the cold, to stretch their weary limbs and drink in some fresh air. Then she canght sight of men and women in hansoms, hansoms that flashed gaily pa^t her own women who wore glittering gems in their hair, and wonderful silk and brocade opeiHt cloaks— (' 1) 0 smiling women nnd sleepy womef., but they (ill belonged to the great army of the plensure- -"Xars. Omnibuses creaked along, omnibuses with humanity, and &u- £ chiupcd n.< passed by their windows at tiilonsi line of faces, each with its life history so plain to read. A music-hall delighted her, because of its illumination, for tiie building appeared to be fashioned out of black velvet, and starred and festooned with lights. Then some whirling advertisement caught her eye. with the name of some big tirm printed in dazzling letters. The contrast between darkness and light was everywhere, and the effect was startlingly fine. Sara appx-eeiated it, as she appreciated anything that gratified her senses or her eyes, The cab soon left the wide thoroughfare behind, ajid darted through mean streets— streets where the children still played in the roadway, and hardly moved to allow the cab to pass. Thin slatterns stood at the doorways, and fat unwieldy women held their own in the wordy warfare of the streets. Men of all classes slouched by—the broken-down gentle- man, the working man, the thief they flitted I along, dark and silent shadows. Night birds i were there, night birds or prey, impossihle to mistake, depravity written large on every line 9 of their faces. Then, as the cab neared Soho, a foreign element became more conspicuous. Italians jabbered to each other in quick, high notes—dangerous-looking ruffians, men to whom it would come easy to handle a knife. Sara looked at them all with a bland, almost contemptuous curiosity then, as the cab stopped at a mean-looking house, she gave a light, almost reckless laugh. "Adventures are to the adventurous," she muttered, as she quoted the well-known phrase; then she glanced at the cabman. "You had better wait »for me here," she said; "and if I happen to be more than an hour you may as well ring the bell." Her eyes were fearless, and the smile on her lips evoked the admiration of the man. "She is a fine plucked one, she is," he muttered, under his breath then watched ¡ Sara's slim figure as sl^ lightly ascended the steps and knocked at xhe door of this dingy Soho lodging-house. Heads were poked out of the windows at the unusual sight of a hansom in such a street. The grimy bundles on the doorsteps bestirred themselves, and the passers-by made a sort of ring round the waiting cab. Little children darted in and out, small, miserable frag- ments of humanity that hearts might well have ached over. The cabman drew a match from his pocket and lit his pipe, then watched the scene with undisturbed equanimity. He felt certain that he had secured a liberal fare, and he was quite disposed to settle himself down to a quiet smoke. In the meantime Sara's sharp knock at the door had been answered. A slatternly- looking old woman opened it a few inches, and inquired in a high, cracked foreign voice who the visitor wanted. She was obviously very suspicious, as she barely held the door open two inches, and her large brown eyes scanned Sara curiously. "I have come here to see a man who lodges in this house," said Sara—"a man called David Cosham." The old crone shook her head, and the long brass earrings she wore quivered in her ears. "Si, signora," she said, slowlv, "but it is not good to ask to see David Cosham. He will not see you-he will not see anyone." She attempted to shut the door as she spoke; her manner was distinctly aggressive and unpleasing. Sara bit her lip. She was unaccustomed to be contradicted or denied then, with a quick movement, she pushed the door a little to one side, and half made her way into the dark and dirty-looking passage. The old woman protested, and held up her lean hands. They were brown and withered, almost like the claws of an animal. "This is impossible—this is infamous!" she said, in loud tone*. "You shall not force your way into my house like this, signora 1 Do I not pay rent for it ? Is it my house or yours? Here,Beppo—Antonio!" She shrilled out the last words, looking over her shoulder into the darkness, for the passage was in- differently lighted by a rank and evil-smelling lamp. "Do not be foolish, or try to have me turned out," exclaimed Sara, quieklv. Then she suddenly began to speak to the old woman in Italian. "It will be to your advantage, mother," she said, "if you let me see this David Cosham—very much to your advantage. If you want to earn money, now is your chance and money is always acceptable, is it .not so She held up a sovereign as she spoke, and the old woman's eyes glistened as they fell on the gleaming coin. "Ah!" she said. There was a low-drawn note of cupidity in her voice, and she snatched at the coin as a ravenous dog might have snatched at a bone. Heavy steps could be heard shambling down the stairs. The old woman made a hasty movement backwards, and shook her head at the man whose figure could be dimly seen. "There's no need for you, Beppo; no need at all. All is well the signora is a friend." Then she turned and fixed her eyes upon Sara. So you want to see David Cosham ? she said, slowly "then, signora, you shall see him. He will be very furious with me, very passionate, so you will pay old Anita well, will you not ? for it is no light thing to incur the wrath of David Cosham." "Do not be afraid," replied Sara, in low tones. "After I have seen the man I will pay you liberally, but I must see him first. You understand ? The old woman shook her head. "Now," she muttered, extending her withered, claw- like hands; but Sara was equally firm. "After I have seen David Cosham," she said, decidedly, and there was a note of deter- mination in her voice which the other recognised. "Now take me to him at once," she said, quietly, "for I am in a hurry to get my interview over. The old woman hesitated. David Cosham is not a pleasing person in his moods," he said, nervously, rolling her arms round and round in her dirty apron, and talking in rapid Italian pa/at.s. "Sometimes he is heavy and stupid as an ox, at other times he is passionate and ravenous as a lion." "I am not afraid." Sara drew herself up to her full height, and flung back her black veil. Old Anita looked at the white face and the flashing black eyes. "No, no," she muttered; "you are not one of those women who know fear. Well, follow me, signora; at least you can never say I have not warned you. She led the way as she spoke down a long passage, a stone passage grimy with dirt, and swarming, Sara felt, with vermin. Sara Modjeski drew her skirts tightly round her. A sense of repugnance and disgust came over her; she was far more afraid of dirt than of the knife of any Italian assassin, and the heavy, fetid air of the lodging-house gave her a faint sense of nausea. "Do these wretched creatures ever know what it is to feel clean ? she thought to berself. "I don't wonder that children born it such surroundings grow into violent and bandoned criminals." She heard a loud sound of laughing and jalking going on, possibly in an underground kitchen, and from the passionate excitement displayed she judged that some game of hazard was going on. Perhaps Anita kept a third-rate gambling den as well as a lodging- house it was quite possible-everything was possible in Soho. All at once she tripped and nearly fell; her foot had caught in a loose flagstone. "Be careful, signora be careful," exclaimed the old woman, with some anxiety; "we do not want an accident, I am sure." Sara laughed and followed her guide she was pleased by the other's manifestation of sympathy. They had come now to the stair- case, and Anita preceded her visitor up the crumbly, worm-eaten steps. "Walk very carefully, if you please," she said, slowly, "for there are hcles at nearly every stair." Sara felt strangely excited as she followed the Italian. The stairs seemed endless, and she passed closed doors, and they stopped to draw breath at the various landing places. She wondered what was going on bellind these closed doors she could hear the shrill voices of men and women, also the piteous cry of children. The lodging-house seemed to swarm with life, the atmosphere grew more and more tainted, and as they climbed higher up the stairs the light from the hall lamp failed to reach them, and the whole house seemed to be swallowed up in darkness. They halted at the 1ft. ;——- :-c— we come to David Cosham's room," said Anita. "You will not be afraid to go in alone Y 1! I have never been afraid of anything since I was born," replied Sara, lightly; "not real danger, that is to say, danger I can face and see." Anita drew a box of matches from her pocket and struck a light, and by its faint and flickering beams Sara discovered that she and her companion were standing outside a closed door. She put her hand out and touched the handle. "This is the room, I suppose ? she asked, almost carelessly. Anita nodded her head, and the nfatch went out. "Yu had better wait for me in the hall," whispered Sara, "and when I come down I will pay you—well." "That is all very fine," muttered the old crone, with a shake of her head. "But what if you don't come down ? This David Cosham can be a wild beast, I teli you-a wild beast! "if I don't come dowi. "— Sara repeated the words slowly, then !1"!e smiled- well, you must take the risk of that, Anita, even as I do." The next second Sara had opened the door and, all unheralded, made her way into IDLvid Cosham's room. ( > j CHAPTER XII. A blaze of light met Sara Modjeski's eyes as she crossed the threshold and slightly ) dazzled her after the darkness outside, for the room was illuminated by candles—candles stuck into a number of broken candlesticks, three or four placed upon the mantelpiece and two on a broken-down dressing-table. Evi- dently David Cosham was a man who feared the dark,or else he had a curious liking for the light. The man himself lay back on a pallet bed placed in one corner of the room, and from where he lay he appeared like a dark bundle of rags. His face was hidden, buried against a dirty cushion, but he stirred as he heard the sound of footsteps* and raised his head. "Who are you, and what are you doing ? he said, fiercely," and his voice had a low, almost animal growl in it: then he started and blinked his eyes. He had evidently not ex- pected such a visitor. "I thought you were one of the downstairs people," he muttered. "Why have you come near me? I don't know you, and I don't want to know you." He spoke in sharp, broken sentences, and his voice revealed that he was agitated and dis- turbed. He had raised himself into a sitting position on the bed by now. Sara glanced at the man, and guessed rightly enough that he was partly under the influence of some drug she suspected morphia. For a second the man and woman stared steadily at each other, then Sara suffered her gaze to relax, and swept her eyes over the room. It was the ordinary bedroom of Soho, extremely squalid, extremely dirty-two or three chairs and tables, all of them chipped and broken, and no carpet on the floor. Evidently David Cosham was not a man who studied comfort, or else he found his comforts outside the room. He was a tall man, and powerfully built, but he seemed to have shrunk and withered in some curious fashion. His face was very thin, and his cheekbones shewed plainly; also his eyes bore witness to nights and days of dissipation. His jspare hair and moustache were thickly streaked with grey, and all unkempt; his hands were the hands of the drunkard—nervous, trembling hands—and the finger-tips were stained and discoloured. On the table by the bedside lay a morphia needle and a hypodermic syringe, so Sara had been right in her conjecture. •x cen you i don't see people," repeated the man. "I suppose you are a district visitor, or some sort of Bible woman "—he laughed rather harshly. "Well, I don't want prayers cr preaching," he went on, hurriedly; "go and find somebody else more likely to profit by it. It ain't no good-no good at all for David Cosham. "As it happens, I am no Bible woman," answered Sara, coldly; "and, as I have a very particular reason for wishing to see you, I don't intend to leave this room till my object has been accomplished. You have a secret to sell, a secret I want to buy. That is what I have come here for, David Cosham —to trade. I suppose you know Gerard Arnold ? The man turned ashy white and his teeth began to chatter, and Sara knew him at once for what he was, a bully and a coward. "I ain't got no secret to sell, lady," he protested, with weak vchemence. "Oh, go away—go away his voice rose shrill and piercing. "Why did you wake me up ? I was so very dreamy and peaceful, and my dreams are not always so soft and happy, but the stuff was good stuff this time." Then he took up the morphia needle as he spoke, and ran his fingers over it lightly and caressingly. "I have had to do without it for some time," he murmured, "for I had come to the end of my money; but ever since yesterday ycsttrday he smiled and crooned over the needle; there was something revolting and debasing in the spectacle. "Pull yourself together if you can," said Sara, sharply—"that is, if you want to earn money." David Cosham smiled with keen cunning. "What if I have got enough to last me my life-got a young friend who is always eager to help me, and who won't let David Cosham starve ?" He lowered his voice to a maudlin whisper. "Four hundred pounds safe in the savings bank-safe where no one ca.n rob or steal it—money that I have got to draw upon whenever I like, money that will send me \nto Paradise every day." Once more bis fingers caressed the shining morphia needle, and a weird expression came into the man's pale face, the expression of a man who faces the Mecca of his desires. Sara, hesitated for a second, then she sat down on one of the wooden chairs and gltzed at David Cosham with coldly contemptuous eyes. "I suppose you are referring to Gerard Arnold ? she said, quietly. The half-stupelicd man started, then got up from the bed, and came forward with a threatening gesture. "Don't speak of Gerard Arnold," he muttered then he began to curse and swear. Sara listened unmoved to his long string of oaths, for blasphemy and profanity had long ceased to shock her; ¡iut when the man's voice had died down to a low whine she addressed herself to him again. "I shall certainly speak or Gerard Arnold if I choose, and I shall expect you to answer. Now tell me the truth, David Cosham do you receive money from him ? But there, I know you do. I have read the last letter -you wrote him. and I want that letter explained to me." Her voice was cold and defiant. The man flung himself into an armchair and burst into a string of hideous oaths, vituperating Sara with all his force; and the woman realised as she listened that the influence of the drug was wearing off, and the morphia maniac was becoming more himself again, no longer a sleepy dreamer, but a coarsely passionate man. "I ain't got nothing to do with Gerard Arnold," he protested, huskily, at last. "He and I won't ever have any more dealing with each other, thank Heaven! I'm out of his clutches at last, and I want nothing from him. Now get you gone! he added, furiously "for I tell you I wa.nt to be left in peace. Confound you, woman, if you don't go I will kill you He glanced up with some fire in his eyes, and Sara realised that he was getting dangerous. She had come upon this man at the wrong moment; she had disturbed him in a morphia dream, and now he would be sullen and dangerous till be fell once more under the enervation of the drug. She knew this per- fectly well, also that she could do little with him at present: still, she had a bold card to play, and she played it. She lifted her thick lace veil and advanced quite close to David Cosham. "Look at my face," she said, quietly; "does it remind you of no one ? I am supposed to be like my brother. Your brother muttered the man, huskily, staring at Sara, a dim look of fear coming into his eyes. "Yes, there is a look—a look," he muttered, in whimpering accents; then he gave a low cry and hid his face in his hands. "He,v, helD us!" he muttered: "but you ait- not Basil ..UnulLU' II blbLt:l'1JAoJ J U't: dith who died in South Africa ? He shivered as he spoke, a long, ghastly shudder which shook him from head to foot. "Basil Meredith, who was murdered in South Africa," replied Sara, with quiet emphasis. "Yes, I am that dead man's sister. Look at me well, David Cosham, and try and feel that Basil Meredith is speaking to you." She spoke in clear, resolute tones, feeling herself mistress of the situation. The shivering wretch on the chair began to shudder and moan; then he glanced up, & ferocious expression coming over his face. You had better go," he shouted, furiously —"go before I get violent. Don't come here like an upbraiding ghost; besides, what have you to say against me—what ? He sprang up from his seat as he spoke, and advanced threateningly on Sara. But she held her ground with a courage that calmed and dis- armed him. I "Now, you are not fighting a wild beast like yourself," she said, quietly; "try and realise that you are speaking to a woman, a woman who has come here to ask one very simple question. Basil Meredith was murdered, and we both know by whom." She glanced at him with clear, steady eyes, and lie wavered and flinched. "It would be very difficult to prove that murder," she went on, quietly, "or to bring the murderer to jubtice, but I wish to ask one question-one question only. Was Gerard Arnold in any way an accessory to the murder of his friend ? Now the truth, man—for Heaven's sake the truth I Is that the hold you have over him ? "And what will you do if I do speak the truth ? replied the man, sullenly. He had turned perfectly livid, and heavy beads of sweat shewed themselves on his forehead. "David Cosham shall go tree in any case," replied Sara, slowly—"David Cosham who, I imagine, has led a dog's life for years for I was shamefully deceived at the time," she went on, in clear tones, "shamefully deceived by Gerard Arnold—Gerard Arnold, who put the whole burden of my brother's murder j upon another man's shoulders, and pretended to be so heartbroken and distressed She paused and looked hard at David | Cosham, as though seeking to probe his very soul. David Cosham hung his head: the expression of animal ferocity deserted his I face, and when he spoke his voice was low and tremulous. "It may have been David Cosham who ) struck the blow," he muttered, hoarsely, but it was struok at Gerard Arnold's orders; for I so Heaven help me, Heaven help me he sank on his knees with a low cry, and raised his hands protestingly. "Wasn't I utterly and hopelessly in the man's power, and didn't Gersft-d Arnold know it ? Wasn't it as much as my life was worth to disobey him ? I didn't want to hurt Basil Meredith, for he was always kind to me, kind and generous. But there what could I do against Gerard I Arnold ? He is a fiend, I tell you, and he makes fiends of the men who serve him David Cosham poured the words out with fierce vehemence. "What wouldn't I give," he went on, "to be rfevenged on Gerard Arnold ? For he has ground me under his heel, he has robbed me, he has starved me, he has kept me here, rotting in misery, beggared and starving, on a paltry dole of a few pounds a month, laughing at my threats of blackmail, swearing he would denounce me to the police on his own account- The man stopped speaking suddenly, for he saw that his listener was paying no attention. Her face was pa!lid and convulsed, her eyes dilated. Oh, Heavens!" she muttered, in low tones; "then it is true, true what I often suspected. Gerard Arnold murdered Basil, and not only murdered the brother but broke the sister's heart." She said the words aloud, then her eyes fell on the wretch kneeling by her side. "You must come and see me," she said, quietly—"here is my I address; come to-morrow—for you must help me to be revenged on Gerard Arnold. Will you do this ?" She asked the question in sharp, imperative tones. The man laughed fiercely, in answer. "Revenge," he muttered, huskily—"to be revenged on Gerard Arnold alter all these years and after all the misery I have suffered But "—he paused and hesitated, then peered up sharply into Sara's face, an expression of furtive cunning in his eyes—"won't your vengeance fall on me too," he asked, shortly —"on David Cosham as well as on Gerard Arnold ? "No; I pledge you my word for that," replied Sara, decidedly. "You are your own punishment, and you live in your own con- demnation. Besides "—her voice sank to alow I whisper—"you are killing yourself, it is easy enough to see that; also one other thing"— I he tlung her head back with almost reckless defiance—"you are only the too! of a st.roimr man, and my quarrel is with Gerard Arnold, not with David Cosham." 'he moved across the room as she spoke, waking umly and steadily, though she saw everything through a veii of mist. David Cosham shivered as the dcor closed upon her, then he reeled to Lis miser- able bed and fiung himself down on the mattress. The interview with Sara had shaken him terribly; also his nerves had gone to pieces long ago, he was little better now than a broken wreck. "What a woman," he muttered, in low tones; "Ilnd how she hates Gerard Arnold. And by Heaven she has reason to, for didn't he force me to murder Basil Meredith ?-the mean skunk, afraid to do his own dirty work, and compelling David Cosham to do it for him As the wretched man spoke he let his head drop ba.ck upon the soiled and torn pillow, and he retlected on the events of tba last few hours. The evening before he had been surprised and startled by the advent of an unexpected visitor—no less a person than ycung Roger Hardy. The barrister had come to the point I at once, and explained in a lew words the object of his visit, informing David Cosham that Gerard Arnold's pocket-book had fallen into his hands by accident, and that he had come across the letter written to the million- aire, the letter in which David Cosham had threatened the other man with exposure. Roger Hardy then went on to say that be was prepared to pay for any information that David Cosham could give him, and to pay heavily. After some time a bargain had been struck, David Cosham promising to give the young barrister the main outlines of Gerard Arnold's career if Roger Hardy, for his part, would hand over the sum of four hundred pounds in Bank of England notes. After some demur Roger had agreed to do this, though it was parting with a cherished nest egg. He arranged to meet David Cosham the next morning and hand him the money, and then hear all the other had to tell him, having satisfied himself that he would be wise to do this, for there was little doubt that DMi"d Cosham could incriminate the million- aire very seriously, and possibly shew good reason why his proposed marriage with Violet should not take place. But Roger Hardy was doomed to a serious disappointment; he had been foolish enough to give the whining wretch a couple of pounds, with the result that David Cosham spent the night in a vile morphia den, and was sleeping off the effects of the drug at the hour when he should have met Roger Hardy —Roger Hardy, who was pacing up and down the dingy bedroom in Soho, realising that time was passing, and that Violet's wedding was Lxed for two o'clock. David Cosham turned up at last, a blear- eyed, shaking wretch, but when he saw the banknotes he seemed to gain new life for a few moments. Here was money to buy the drug he craved for with such fierce, intolerable craving—money ready to his hand. In less than an hour he had told Roger Hardy a story that made the other's blood run cold, for, utterly reckless of consequences, he kept back nothing, and the barrister realised with a sob of thanksgiving that he had heard enough to save Violet fi-oiii the thrall of Gerard Arnold; only the time was short, the bride must be neadv at the church door. David Cosham remembered with what feverish haste the young man had flung down the packer of banknotes and then rushed iron: the room but lie himself had taken little heed of movements, for his knowledge of the N i, oocuuants of the lodging-house watne to put his money in the savings bank at ,eo' unless he wanted to be robbed, and in ab pio'"a:-i!itv murdered Arcer ne nacr returned from the savings bank he had used the morphia needle, and then had sunk into the heavy sleep ,rom which Sara Modjeski had disturbed him. Some peculiar horror of waking in the dark had made him light up the candles, for the man feared and hated the dark. Then it was when ghosts flitted in to mock him. ghosts of bygone sins; and one ghastly spectre, taller than all the others, was his special dread—a spectre who trailed in robes of crimson, and whose livid hands dripped with gore, one who moaned "Murder, murder! till Dr.vid Cosham wondered that the very walls did not echo the accusing cry. s How many years was it since these ghastly visions had begun to haunt him ? David Cosham hardly I-TCW, but then he had for- gotten so many things. He had a hazy im- pression that- Gi-rand Arnold had not always treated him like s pariah dog, but had once set him up in a little shop: only somehcw the shop didn't prosper. He had taken to the morplna habit about that time, but only because he wanted to forget things—a certain ghastly episode in South Africa, for instance, and the recurrence of a dream, a dream that bathed him in sweat. >. He had sunk: lower and lower after the little shop went smash, and Gerard Arnold had grown mean and pitiless, doling out ;ust enough money to keep David Cosham alive, fearful perhaps of what the other might reveal whilst under the influence of tiaa enslaving drug. David Cosham moaned and tossed rest- lessly: then sat up and bared his arm, an arm pitted with tiny scars. "I don't care, not if it kills iii, he muttered. "'Twould be an easy, a happy death "-bo applied the morphia needle as lie spoke, then sank back upon his pillow, a look of drowsy content coming over his face. "To die' in one's sleep," he murmured—"ah! I only wish 1 could. But what was it I taught old Polly to say—or rather what the bird learnt from hearing me cry out in my fever, as I lay staring into the broken looking-glass, staring at my own face ?—' I sees yer, David Cosham You'll swing in:' it yet. I wonder now—I ,onùer 'hi, tones got sleepily meditative a.s the drug took effect—"if the words will work out true ? (To be ontinued).

jtiioke in sa-v melancholy't( and her voice was so lifeless that Violet shivered. "Tell me why I am being kept here ds a prisoner? she asked. Oh you might surely tell me that." Ves, Paul Stavensky told me I might answer that question," replied Soilia. You are being detained here till ransom has been paid fcr you. When Paul Stavensiy receives the fintl of twenty thousand pounds from your husband the door of this house will open, and you will pass out for ever. We are Nihilists, as you may have guessed. and we need money for our cause." She spoke with a listless indifference and a duJi apathy. Violet ros™ to her feet. Oli it is impos- sible-it is preposterous," she muttered. to dare to detain me here against my will, to keep me a prisoner. What right have you to do this? Sonia laughed; there was something weird and uncanny in her mirth. The right desperation gives." she answered, slowly. We who have been tortured and outraged beyond bearing, out- rage and tort ere in our turn." She paused, ui a singular expression of intense cruelty flitted over h. r beautiful face. "What if the money is not asked Violet. Suppose Gerard Arnold refuses to gratify his blackmailers—and it is quite likely that he will? She tsked the ques- tion nervously. You will die, that is all," Sonia replied, quite calmly. "You do not suppose that Paul Stavensky makes a threat and then fails to carry it out? He is a man of iron, and what he says he means." Yiolet turned very pale, then crossed the room, and cam ? to Soma's side. What, do you mean that I slmuld bo murdered?" she asked faintly. Oh for Heaven's sake tell me that you do not really mean what you say. Why should I be killed? What have I done? You. oh you have done nothing." replied Sonia. wearily. but then. you see. we do not regard you as an individual. You are merely an instrument whom we want to use for a certain purpose, and. if you fail us, why you must be broken and thrown away." The girl spok" in cold. clear tones. Violet shivetod, for she realised zli, words were no ielL. threat. She had evidently fallen into the hands of utterly reckless and unscrupulous people, people to whom, as Sonia had truly said, human life meant little or nothing. By when is the money to be found," asked the money my life is priced at?" She spoke in heavy, listless tones. for she was almost stunned and there was something so curiously unreal in the whole situation that she felt as if she was passing through some awful nightmare. Unless the money is p%id within a week four life will be forfeitecf." Sonia picked up some knitting as she spoke and began to knit briskly, counting the stitches with ihnost- mechanical precisio"-

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