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^PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.J MARVELS AD MYSTERIES. BY RICHARD MARSH, Author of "The Beetle: A Mystery," "The Crime and the Criminal," "The Datchet Diamonds," &c., &c. [COPYRIGHT.] POURQIOIPAS. CHAPTER II. When Mr. Fletcher awoke—there was no mis- take about it this time-it was broad day. He lay for some moments revelling m the first joy of wak- ing. When he thought of the events of the night. he laughed aloud: they were eo utterly absurd. Remembering the scraps of paper, he eat up in bed to look. for them. In rising his glance fej upon pillow. There, on the snowy linen, within half an inch of where cheek had just been retting, branded, ae it seemed, in blood, was the impress of a horse's hoof. Mr. Fletcher managed, during the early portion of that day. to avoid his hoete»* He went out into the viliage. There appeared to be only one shop i.i the place. At t.he door of that establishment stood a man. He was a big. burly fellow in blouse and •abots. He looked a companionable soul. Mr. Fletcher found him what he looked-a gossip. Mr. Fletcher began bv alluding to the natural beauties of the neighbourhood. He then remarked that he was staying at "La Boule d'Or," the landlord of which, he understood, had lately died. "It waoo time he did." Such a scamp, was he?" As honest a man as ever lived." Mr. Fletcher pricked up his ears at this. Rather wild, wasn't he" There never was a quieter soul." "But wasn't he extravagant?" "Extravagant! For example, he had never a 80U to spend." That, I i*!ipt>ose, was after he had spent all be h:>.1 to spend?" Monsieur B< no hard—the name wae painted on the dittle window over his door—cast at Mr. Fletdher a contemplative glance. He placed his hands on the upper portion of capacious stomach. "I see." "What do you eee?" „ "You have been listening to Madams Pettier. Madame Peltier certainly gave me to understand that he was not all a husband should have n." "Marie:" Monsieur Bonchard called into the øhnp. A feminine reproduction of himself came to- wards the froot. What sort of a husband wad Peltier, up at the Hotel de la Boule d'Or?' "A moded husband. A true model." r As for his wif" The lady interposed. It not for us to say anything." I was his friend; it jg for me to say the trutfo. She murdered him!" "Murdered him!" Mr. Fletcher felt that the authorities were too conflicting. Not with a pistol and a, knife, but with her cruelty. She led him the life of a She did not kt him have enough to eat; she would not let him have a. sou to call his own she would not let him have hia liberty; she used to lock him up in a room for days; she beat him." "Beat him!" "Never shall I forget one night he came to me. He was crying—ah like my little baby. Bonchard,' hf said. 4 it is finished. She ha.s beaten me!' With her shoe," explained the lady, "as though he were a little child." He was a very little man dhe wae a big woman be nothing in her hands. She used to say she would "how him as a dwarf. All, what he suffered. He had a spirit w'hich was too large for his body. After that beating—Monsieur, he was black and blue, w;r,1I my own eyes I saw the brui.se* —within a week he was no more—he was dead. That is why I say she murdered 'him. One tale is good," reflected Mr. Fletcher, until anoiker is told. The fault does not annear to have been all upon one side. If she beat him with her sh*e— degradation not to be surpassed—I don't wonder that he preferred the bosom of Pour. qU0ipa, Corroboration of Monsieur Bonchard's story was obtained from another quarter—from the Breton maid who waited upon him at his midday meal. What sort of man was the late Monsieur Peltier?" An Rn gel." Mr. Fletcher felt that this was strong. The maid did not look as though he was an enthui3stic daI71s(> On the other hand stin less did Monsieur Peltier-in his portrait—look as though he were an angel. "What was there angelic about him?" He was so good that was his fault—he was too good. He was a little man—such a little man—one could have nursed him like a baby." Mr. Fletcher was conscious that there might be dr wba< ks in being nursed like a baby. "I -I'^ipo^e, then, that he and his wife lived hap- pilv together?" "Happily! Ah, for example" The damsel was standing by hi- chair. Stooping, she whispered in his ear: "Madame has a tongue!" Standing up. she looked about her, possibly to see if the coast was dear: "And Madame has an arm! You "ee that?" She pointed to a red mark upon her cheek. "She has just done it. She may be big, but I will let her know that next time she slaps me it shall not be for nothing." It was possible that the damsel's evidence was prejudiced. When one has just been slapped, one does not, necessarily, have a high opinion of the slapper. Still, straws how which way the wind is blowing. It was evident that public opinion was not unanimous In reprobating Monsieur Peltier. Mr. Fh-tcher did not see his hostess until after supper. He was quitting the salle a^ manger when he hoard the &our;d of sobbing. The sound pro- ceeded from a little room at the foot of the stairs. The door of the room was open. In it was Madame Pettier. Mon-ieur, I entreat you, enter." Mr. Fletcher entered. It is all over. It is done. It j" finished." Mr. FIndler inquired what was finished. "I am runied. It is of no consequence to any one—r hat I know very well—but it is all the world to me." Mr. Fietclipr asked—being driven upon the patin of cross-examination—in what way she was ruined. "I have just given orders that all mv horses— Pourouoipa.- alone is worth five and twenty thou- sand francs-and all the money I have in the world are to be sent to a man in Morlaix, of whom I have not even heard the n:1me. "You are not scnou*: "Do I look as though I were not serious, mon- sieur? What would you have. Ask Sam Tucker. He is going to take both the money And the horses." If you really have given such an order, I would earnestly advice you to countermand it. You don't mean to say, now you have had an opportunity for quiet thought, that you are not yourself persuaded that vou have been the victim of a trick?' What do vou call a trick? that a. trick last night? Do not tell me I do not know my own hus- band, if you please. All this morning I say to my. self, 'I will go into the stable. No, no, no. This afternoon I find upon my table a piece ° 'Come:' Who put it there? It is in my husband, writing, i went to the-stable, although 1 s-ai to mvseli I would not go. I have heard there from Pourquoipas—ah, what I have heard! Never was spoken to in such a way before. And by a h°' 'e ■ Ciel! It is a wonder I am not dead! It is enoug^ that I promised to send the hor>es and the money, by Sam Tucker, to a man at Morlaix, whose name even I do not know." I would strongly advise you to put off the ful- filment of your promise—at any rate, until tie morning. It is impossible! I am not a woman without courage, but I do not dare." She did dare. Mr. Fletcher persuaded her. Tho sacrifice was postponed. "Now," the gentleman told himself, "unless I am greatly mistaken, to-night I shall have another visitor, as the consequence of meddling with the affairs of others!" His forebodings were realised—he had a visitor! He put off retiring to the latest possible moment. When he did "eek the privacy of his own apartment, he still postponed the act of going to bed. "I think I remember seeing somewhere a little play called Diamond Cut Diamond.' If I am to receive a visit, I think I 11 receive him sitting up. I snail be able to offer" rum more courtesy than I should if I were in bed. He put out the candle, taking care to have it within easy reach. He put a box of matches in his pockct-CIlv regret ting that there was no lantern handv. Taking off his boots, he sat down in a chair and waited. He waited hours..Sothing broke the silence of the night. No church clock told of the flight of time. "One might almost think that someone had bcld my friend that I had a six-shooter in mv pocket, the better to do him honour. If something doesn t happen soon I shall either have to walk about, or else tro to sleep in my chair—and if it comes to that, TV1 better go to hor) M The night stole on. Still nothing to break the monotony of waiting in the dark. More than once Mr. Fletcher had caught his chin in the act of falling forward on to his chest—his yawns became prodigious! It begins to occur to me that, at my time of life, nothing a.nd no one is worth sitting up for all night. I'm off to bed." lie was about to go to bed, and, for that purpose, had already risen from his seat, when—he heard a 8Oun.d What's thaW" It might have been the creaking of a board. It might have been the movement of a mouse. It mitht have been any of the trifling noises of which we are conscious in the silence of the night. Of one thmg ontv he certain-—he had heard a. He listened, his sense of hearing almost unnaturally alert. A sound again "Perhaps, after all, it's nothing hut a mouse." If it was a mouse, it was a curious one. The sound became plainer. It seemed to Mr. Fletcher that it coming nearer. "It's someone moving. I hope to goodness it isn't thftt old idiot, Madame." But it did not seem as if it proceeded from the stairs. Su *ely, if she came at ail, she would come that way. It strikes me that it is someone in the ather room. For all I know, there may be someone sleep- ing there. Halloa! What's that?" It was a ra.y of light—the merest pencil! It gleamed, like a streak of molten metal, across th3 floor. I'm a Dutchman, it's shining through the wall:" It was there could be no doubt of it. It came through a crevice in the wainscot. I have it! I spot it all! Now for the next card in the game—it'll be a call for trumps. I rather fancy, too, that I shall be able to trump this little trick." The pencil of light grew wider. "They're slipping a panel in the wainscot—just behind the head of my bed! This thing gets beau- tifully plain!" With a cat-like step, Mr. Fletcher moved towards the bed. The pencil cf light was ceasing to be a pencil-it began to illuminate the room. "Steady, my friend, that panel distinctly creake l. Yeu must oil it next time. b >forp you play this game. In delicate operations of this kind, trifles light as air are apt to spoil the full effect." The room was in that state of semi-radiance which had puzzled Mr. Fletcher on the previous night. Now, my friend, is it now? It is! He's coming! Trumped. Good evening, dear friend, good even- ing With one hand he had someone by the collar of his coat, with the other he pointed a revolver into someone's face. Good evening, dear friend, good evening." There endued an interval for reflection. The cap- tive seemed momentarily paralysed the captor was taking stock. The prisoner was a little man—a very little man, scarcely reaching above Mr. Fletcher's waÏ¡¡;t. "After all!" The words proceeded from the little man in some- tiling between a moan and a gasp. "As you say, my friend, 'after all'—after all we meet, again. Perhaps you will permit me to strike & lJgnt my Your light we will examine later en. The little man offered no resistance when his captor drew him towards the table. He stood in silence while the candle was being lit, nor did he flinch when Mr. Fletcher held it in fro-nt of his face, the better to see what manner of man he was. "From the look of you, I should say you were the late Peltier's Corsican brother." You have a. revolver. Shoot me. It is better so." It may be better so-a little later in the evening. At the present, it seems to me that it would be a pity. Let me place you oil the table." Lifting him in hie anas, Fletcher seated him on the edge of the table, the little man remaining as docile as a child. When, however, he had gained that post of vantage, What it is to have been born a little man!" he groaned. I "The situation is not without its compensations Women, mistaking your age, may bestow on you their caresses as generously as though you were a little boy. Now, may I ask-I trust you will not deem the question an impertinence—who you are, and what's your little game?" "Do you not know me?" Uniess you are the ghost of the late lamented Peltier, I am afraid I don't." I am Peltier himself." "Peltier! Ernest! Whew!" Mr. Fletcher whistled. "But I thought that you were dead." In the morning I shall be dead." The little man spoke with an air of tragic glocm. But so far as I understand the right of the matter, you are—or you ought to be-stone dead nuw. You are buried." My coffin is buried." The little man was still. Looking at him. rnorking | his air of extreme depression, Mr. Fletcher began, faintly, to realise the situation. "You do not understand?" Not yet—exactly." "Altbtough you do not understand—you have ruined me. It seems to me that that is well. Is it beea«ise you love my wife?" lour wife! Well, not precisely." "What is it, then? You think, no doubt, you have done a brave and clever tiling—you, a stranger, who came into this country for the first tune yesterday. You are mistaken. You see, I am a small man. My wife, she is as big as a huuee. Ever since the day I married her she made my life no life at all. I could do nothing against her, she did with me as she pleased. Once I ran aw:uy. I did not go far, I had only three francs in my pocket. Those I had to steal. Sometimes, two, three times a day she would look to see if there was any money in my pockets. She found me, she broughit me back, she lucked me up for three whole week", m this very room. Sbe took away my clothes. She left me but my drawers, my slippers, alld my shirt. That was very funny, was it not For you; but not for me. Oli. mon Dieu! After all. I am a man." In the uncertain light Mr. Fletcher taw that the tears were rolling down the speaker's cheeks. "I was ashamed to complain to people of the treatment I received, though I do not doubt it was plain enough to all the world. I thought once or twice of killing her; but it seemed to me it would be better that I should kill myself rather than her. This reflection put into my head the beginning of a scheme. At la.8t things came to a crisis. hE- she beat me. She beat me a8 though I WfTe a child—me, a man of honour—with a slipper upon her knee It is incredible, but it is none the less the truth, shoe berut me until I cried with pain! That was enough. I arranged my scheme. I pretended to be ill. I knew that she was very superstitious. I told her that, when I was dead, my soul would pass into the body of a horse." Pourquoipas ?" Into the budy of Pourquoipas. Xo sooner had I said it than I seemed to die." How did you manatge that?" I swallowed a draught which made it teem—to her—that I was dead." "But how about the doctor? Aren't such tilings at;< certificates of death known in this part of the world?" "Sam Tucker saw to that." I though: our friend the jockey lifud a finger in the pie." "He has been a good friend to me, Sam Tucker. She lust no time in putting me into a coffin. Dead, she feared me more than living. Sam Tucker fastened down the lid." Having first, I suppose, taken care to see that you were out of it." That is ..0. When the coffin had been buried we got her down to the stable. I spoke to her, as ene thought, out of the mouth of Pourquoipas." And, pray, how was that edifying performance arra uged You spoke to me, you. must remember, out of the mouth of Pourquoipas." It was very simple. There is a cellar under- neath the stable. A small grating opens into the box of Pourquoipas. I spoke through the grating. y"u were easily deceived." It ou think ,0, do you? It seems to me, my friend, that you're a. past master in deception." I V idea was to frighten my wiie into sending the horses—which, arfter all, are my own property— and a plum of money to a.n address in Morlaix. Then I should be able to start the world afresh, freed from the chains of slavery. There can be no doubt she would have sent them. 1: ou cme upon the ne. Bv meddling in the affairs of otllers you have ruined all. It seems that I must starve and after all "Hist' What's that? Mr. Fletcher caught Monsieur' Peltier bv the prm. There s someone coming up the stains, and I H bet a dollar^ s your wife. Hide behind the curtains of die becl. There came a tapping at the door. "Open," monsieur, open!" When the door vn* opened, Madame Peltier stood without, in the Miry costume of the night before. Monsieur, I cannot s-eep, it i8 no Ail the night I think that I hear voices A figure advanced into the centre of the room, the figure of a. very litr.1e man. Agnes! Tit lady fainted. Sixteen solid stone fell with a thltd upon the ground. 1r. Fletcher brought her round in course of time. "It was Lnest!" I'pnn my word," gaid Mr. Fletcher, "I believe "iTi* enough. Better to be ruined, than to die. I will se::d the money Mid the horses in the morn in sr." » f And she sent i enVThe End -j NEXT WEEK:— A SILENT WITNESS.

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