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[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ABRAXGEJIEXT.] THE ROGUES' SYNDICATE, By TOM GALLON, Author of "The Dea.d Inglby," "Dicky Monteith," "Tattorley,"1 "1e Lady of the C imeo," &c.. &c. [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER 1. THE HOTEL EMBANKMENT. The Hotel Embankment possesses certain ad- vantages over other London hotels which are not to be despised. In the first pbe2, it is the thoapest hotel in tho world-—and the airiest; there aro no restrictions, exc?pt that, to secuie- a place in it, you must retire rather eariy. Lights are fr(x--for they are the lights of London itself; and you may even have a share of the moon and stars, if the gods be kind. There- is nothing to pay —no troublesome servants to be- tipped—and no one to stir you up in the morning with ridiculous hot water or such other matters. In point of fact. the sun wakes you in tho summer, and the cold Taw morning air, or perhaps tho rain, in the winter. Not to carry the mystery any further, let it be explained at once that the Hotel Embankment is that long stretch of pavement- which fkirts the north side of the river, between the bridges of Blackfriars and Westminster; and you may sec- it pretty full on a summer night, what time certain homeless wretohes fill the seats which are dotted along its length. There is rather c. demand in the summer time; and SQ, if you would patronise it. you must be early the corner SoMts fill very rapidly indeed. In tho winter you can pick and choose a little. The company is a little mixed, for m. lsfortilne brings strange T»ed!cllows; and you may find a '■ strange head reclining on your s houlders at about the small hours. But quite a number of people s —too proud or too idle even to seek the casual ward-patroniro the Hotel Embankment. j If you had searched tho length of it. on a certain bright night in a certain Junf. you would have found among its occupants one to whom its hospitality was evidently -somewhat of a new ex- perience. A young man, fairly well dressed; for when one is young and good-looking, one does not pawn one's garments readily yet a young man in whose eves there was no sleep and who stared out hopelessly across the twinkling lights of the river. A young man so hopeless, indeed, that the river had an alluring sound, as it flowed beneath and tapped against the stonework; there was no hunger down there. And this was his, fourth night of the Hot,l Embankment. It had all been so different a month before. Arnold Kenway had returned from a lazy sort of tour in various parts of the world, to find him- self-a young man of four-and-t-wenty-faeed with the news that his fathElr was dying. Arnold was >-ui only sion—an. only child., in ,fact-an(i his mother had died years before Dying the father confessed with tears to the young man that he was ruined and bankrupt; that, with his death, every- thing he possessed would be swept away, to satisfy, in part, his creditors. So it happened that Arnold Kenway, who had never even troubled about money (except to ask for it when occasion demanded) found himself with a few coins in his pocket, and with the world —a very tough oyster inde--dto b opened Be- ing young, and not understanding- the business in the least, he set about his ,k. That was a. month aco; now he was enjoying 1 the hospitality of the Hotel Embankment. The timo that had clap" was a sort of dream; the beginning at restaurants ho had known :n better times. while he looked for a situaron at about four or five hundred a year; the coming- down to little places in Soho, when he would have been glad to accept something at about thirty shillings a week; the cheaper things, when pennies had to be doled out, what time he would will-ngly have taken up a spade and pick, if any srmde arid pick had happened to be forthcoming. Now, for four days the last copper coins had been parted with, to get bread; and to-night—fanvsherl and help- less hopeless and desperate he shared the Hotel Embankment with many other poor outcasts of the groat city, and stared out across ho river, j and wondered what the morrow was to bring. Behind him were the lights of tho great hotels; and the night was so clear that, more th 'n once, he had a vision of some ddicat.e erfatu rc" n beautiful raiment. flitting across behind the litrhted windows, to sit and sup there merrily— while- h- was hungry outside. A mo-nth ago ho had din"d there himself, and had looked out over the lights that studded the river, and had not had a. care in the world. Facing round again, he becamo awa.ro of a glc-am of light from a po!'ceman's lantern, sw('.ep¡[1 along the line of faces on the seats of the Hotel Embankment— f, cs of which his wa3 on:.>. I "lobi fct. to Sashes." sa.? d a ?,.oft b(,sido Arnold Kenway. "If you're under lock and key. serving his Gracious, they do it at night if you take the a.ir on the Hotl Embankment, they i still do it. "Flashes ought to be abolished they wear \110 nerves. The voice was so smooth and soft—even silky, if ?b?- term may be m.ed-that Amo'd Kenway looked round quickly at. tho apr?kc'r. Ho saw nw'an elderly man, of so kind and cheerful an aspect, that he might have been some benignant fairy, watching over the poor wretches who patronised that strange hotel. Ho had a Ion!?, white beard, which c-amo to a point, and which he twisted in his whito pudgy fingers ceaselessly; his eyes werf, blue; his attire eminently respectable. He had on a silk hat a little the: worse for wear, but adorned with that flat brim which scom, to grow on hats of a. certain class, and the skiits of his long black frock coat were drawn carefully across his knees. "Oh. it doesn't much matter, anyway," suid Arnold, with a little laugh. ''My dear young man," said the str?n?er. turn- ing round towards him. and g?nt!y smoothing out the tails of tho fiock coat on his knees while ho spoke, "permit mo to disagree with you. It is one of those things that are not well managed, in a world where Providence is f>rly kind to the weak and helpless. Look behind you" He ex- tended a hand dramatically towards the lighted windows of the big hotel. "Thanks; I have," said Arno'd. laconically. "They don't have flashes there, my young friend." went on the venerable gentleman. I "Nothing nerve-destroying there—and I believo the chef has a. European reputation. On the other band, we have no chef at all—or, at the best, one with no reputation. I ask you, young man, is it fair?" "Nothing is fair in this world." said ,Arnold. bitterly. "When you are suddenly cast on a world which does not want you, you begin to understand the gross unfairness of it all. A month ago I was there" —he jerked his head to indicate the luxury behind him-"and now I am here; and I am so devilish hungry I could go to the back doors of those places, and crave some of th" things that have been left from the tables That is," he added hastily, "if my cursed pride didn't stand in the way." '-Very %ad-verv sad indeed!" muttered the other, in his smooth voice., "although I am bound to contradict you once again, my dear young friend, and to tell you that pride is a mistake. Seize what you can—never by force, but by stealth if possible. I am naturally, as you may perhaps have observed, of a refined and gentle disposition; yet I justify my life in my own fashion. Behind" —he moved his gentle fat hand in the direction of tho hotel—"luxury, warmth, over-feeding, and possiblo indigestion. In front"-h: touched him- self on the breast, and laid a hand impressively on the arm of Arnold Kenway—"the best of com- pany, but nothing to cheer one. and all sorts or desperate ideas regarding tho r;v-r." He closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly. "Surely you are not the sort to think of tnat?" said the young man. "Oh dear, no" exclaimed the venerable one, softly, "Oh. not at all. I progress on waves, as it were; sometimes at the top, sometimes at the bottom; to-night I am at the bottom. I have a suspicion, however, that the wave is coming my way, and that I shall, ride, proudly and with dig- nity, on the crest of it. Wh211 I spoke of the rivpr I referred to you." "There are worse ends," said Arnold. bitterly. "And better ones," brok e in the silky voice. "I have no particular motto. my young friend; if I had. it would be one I had manufactured my- self 'Never go under unless you take someone else with you.' It's a lonely world, and I love company. You thought of the river, young man.; I saw it in your eves." "What else is there?" a-ked Arnold Kenway. "Oh. many things." said the old man; and a beautiful smile stole over his face. "I am here to-night for several reasons; first, because the night is fine; s?cond)y. because I am just one ;ilny short of the amount necessary to procure me the cheapest bed; thirdly, because I am in a contemplative mood; and fourthly, because the small amount I do possess may be put to better uses. Arnold Kenway said nothing; he only shivered, despite the warmth of the night. This man amused him, and it wis well to be amused some- times for an hour or two; the river could wait. "I was about to make a somewhat daring sug- gestion," said tho older man, after a pause. "I have two copper coins, stamped with t-he'head of his Gracious; those coins will purchase for you modest refreshment at a coffee-stall I know, near at hand. Will you permit me?" "You're very good, but I'd rather not," said Arnold. "You will want them yourself to- morrow. "My dear young friend. I never think of the morrow. 'Sufficient for the d-i v 'o.r even a little too much, perhaps. To-morrow, I may be rich to-night, the hungry must feed. Now. don't dis- appoint me; I've taken a great fancy to you." Arnold Kenway looked round at the old man but the faoe of that old man was bland and smiling as ever, although there was perhaps, a curious twinkle in his eyes. Arnold laughed, and got up. and nodded. "It would be churlish to refuse," ha said; "and God knows I need it "It seems rather a nity that we can't reserve our quarters in the Hotel Embankment," said the old man, as he rose, and as another shabby figure slipped along to the end of the seat. "These cheap hotels have always a disadvantage of some sort: one doesn't get the attention one could desire." He chatted pleasantly aT he walked along beside the young man; lie even seemed to know one or two of the figures on the benches, and had a word or two to say about their histories Coming at last. after crossing1 Blaickfriars Bridge, to a coffee-stall, he was excessively polite to the stall- keeper, and enquired anxiously about business. At nst he. made his order. 'A cup—as freshly made as T)ossiblo of that excellent- coffe of vours" he said; "and if you could add an additional lump of sugar, my friend would be grateful. Now, sir"—he turned to Arnold, quite with the a/r of one deciding about an expensive dinner at the Oarlton or Prince's— "would you prefer cake, or do you think that-" A mold Kenway decided on cake—as being more of a luxury, and, by reason of its stodginess, more substantial. Ho drank the strong coffee grate- fully, and began to look with very different eyes upon the old gentleman beside him That old gentleman was softly rubbing his hands one over the other on his somewhat capacious waistcoat, and was watching Arnold appiovingly. with his head on one side. "A.h. my young friend, I see a hint of returning animation/' he said. "The river does not clamour qUJte EO noisily for you, eh?" I "Not quit- replied Arnold, laughing in spito of his misery. "Come. I owe you a debt of grati- tude, small though it may appear. What arc your plans? For to-night I am your very humble I servant. Instantly the .old man lm.ked hi. s arm in that of Kcimay, and began to walk with him across the I blidge. talking glibly in his smooth, oily voice as he went. "My dear young man, let me begin at onco by saying that I am a creature of mood-5, with a temperament of indiarubber. In effect, I bounce, andthe harder tho substance against which 1 am thrown the better do I bounce. In that sense I am a Socialist. To-day I have been hurled very heavily against a very hard substancc—to wit. the world. And to-night I am going to bounce high "One can't bounce high with empty pockets, said Arnold.. "Oh yes, one can; for the very simple reason that one is lighter," retorted the venerable man. "And to-night you and I. though we wanaer through London with empty pockets. will play a great and glorious game of bluff; to-night we will leave the Hotel Embankment, and put up wite. superior accommodation." Ho chuckled softly to himself as he spoke, and rubb-d his disengaged hand over the hand which rested on Arnold s arm. "Will you explain?" asitcd Arnold, a little diy. co My dear boy (forgive the familiarity of the address, but to-night you are very dear to me indeed-almc)st priceless), I intend to invade Society. Wo are both men of education, and here he coughed doprccatingly-" of refinement. We will leave the Hotel Embankment to such loafers as it should fittingly accommodate. and we will go higher. There is an old motto whici says, 'Who aimeth at the sky shoots higher far than he who means a tree' and t0-night we .11 aim high indeed. I am going to the Hotel I c,r- court-that great palace whose lighted windows we looked up at just now, the place which froats the Strand, and backs upon the hotel we h..ve recently vacated." ???'?absurdity exclaimed W.l drawing away from him. Why, we haven t a coin between us-not a farthing." Wh I ch is all the more re?on why we should go there. At a smaller establishment they might go there. At a smaller establishment tney m  ht look out for farthings or copper coins general y at the Hotel H?-coart they don t deal in ?vh_ things at all. Come, my boy, COUI age-cc>ung<) it we play the game with stiff upper lips. we shall win. At the best, we can get a meal ?nd ? a ?d ?' the worst, we can be tUlned out ? im- po,t?rs. Choose: another night-hungry and ?nairm?-?u the Hotel Embankment; on the other h?d? well-spread table and a 5or"to"1" bed afterwards. Bohemians never think of the morrow. Arnold Kenway thought of the morrow- thought, indeed, of the night before him. Another night by the sighing river—herding with the scum of a great city; another night oi hunger and hopelessness. What did it matter? He had done nothing wrong, and ho had a right (or so he thought) to all that should have been his under happier circumstances. He turned to the other man, with a sudden quick heightening of his colour, and with a sparkle in his eyes, "Ric-ht: I'll do it!" he exclaimed, with almost a sob in his throat. I At once the scene changes, said the venera,ol,e man, with a little contented sigh. I, liOCn Chicklev. gentleman at large, am. taking the air on a summer night, before returning to my hotel with a young friend bearing the name of —— He paused expectantly, and twisted the point of his white beard. "I might as well be frank with you, said the other. Nlv name is Arnold Kenway, with noth- ing very much to be ashamed of, and notning very much to be proud of. I thought once I was going to be rich. Fortune played me a trick." All the more reason why you should play Fortune another trick in exchange, said Chicklev, with another chuckle. "I intend to o-et to-night into the Hotel Harcourt, and trust to luck. Why, my friend, should others feed on the best, whilst you and I Never. To- night we take the world by the throat, and s^ nake something out of it!" One can always be bold before the occasion arrives; it is easy to promise what one will do, while yet the actual doing can be put off. but when Arnold Kenway was actually passing into the courtyard of the great Hotel Harcourt. with the venerable figure of Mr. Enoch Chickley enng- ing to his arm, and with the sure and certain knowledge that neither of them had a penny III their pockets, his courage began to fail. He drew back and drew Chickley with him. It's no good; they'd spot us in a moment," he whii;red.. cura., W11ï..?(,1"ed tlle otovfet, nh I arm. "They won't ask for your credentials on the doorstep: all we want to gain, at first. is time. You do not appear to have parted with any of the substantial parts of your wardrobe: we shall pass, muster easily enough." But we have no luggage. We'll invent some—or invent an excuse for its non-appearance. Trust to Enoch! Lean on Chickley!" They went saunteringly across the courtyard, and up towards the great open liallvyay of the hotel. Porters in uniform were standing about, and the warmth and light and luxury within seemed to come out at them with a rush, to drive them back. But Mr. Chickley hummed a little tune, and laughed as he walked. They were within a few yards of the door, when a four-wheeler cab passed them, going towards the hotel. The quick eyes of Mr. Chickley noted that, although the roof of the cab was piled with several trunks, and there were various bags and packages inside, the cab itself had no occupant; evidently the person to whom the luggage be- longed had sent it on to the hotel. As the driver turned his cab at the door, and the porters were hurrying forward, a curious accident happened. The driver had stood upon his box, in order to pull the trunks from the roof of the cab; tossing the reins on to the horse's back, lie threw them so carelessly that they slipped, and fell into the road; leaning forward quickly to get them, with one hand on the animal's flank, he startled the horse in some fashion, and it began to move. One of the porters ran to its head; but, before anything could be done, the frightened animal, further alarmed by the shouts and cries and the glare of light about it. turned, with the reins dragging, and started off through the courtyard towards the street. The driver held on, and vainly shouted to the horse to stop. Swaying from side to side, the cab reached the big archway leading into the Strand; and there the front wheel struck the side of the gateway, and the vehicle went over with a crash. Arnold Kenway saw the usual London crowd gather quickly, and ran out instinctively through the courtyard. As he thrust his way through the crowd he felt rather than saw that Mr. Enoch Chickley was holding tight to his arm. Our chance!" breathed Mr. Chickley; but Arnold did not understand then what he meant. The unfortunate cabman had been pitched off the cab on to his head; he lay stunned in the roadway, with a policeman vainly trying to rouse him. Then, while they looked, the policeman hailed another cab that was passing, and, with assistance, lifted the unconscious man in; the cab started off on the short, way to Charing Cross Hospital. The luggage which had been scattered about the road was got together, and twenty willing pair of hands were righting the cab, and holding the trembling horse. Then it was that Arnold Ken way became aware that Mr. Enoch Chickley was speaking in a tone of authority. Will you be good enough to carry my luggage to the hotel?" he said to one of the hotel porters. "How glad I am that I did not travel in the cab myself! Poor fellow I must go to- morrow. or to-night, to see how he is. Come, my boy"—he turned to Arnold, and began to lead him towards the hotel-" come with me; I am quite s haken. Poor cabmn I sincerely hope he was not married Unfortunately, most of these people have large families. I must provide for them I must certainly do something for them. Preceded by the obedient porters bearing the luggage and with respectful murmurs regarding his kindness of heart following him, Mr. Enoch Chickley, still gripping Arnold Kenway tightly by the arm went slowly towards the hotel. Arnold, like one in a dream, suddenly found him- self respectfully greeted, and half-a-dozen people willing and anxious to obey his slightest request. He dared not think; he could only follow blindly where he was led. "A frightful thin,a t(,rribtd disaster!" mur- mured the old imnostor to the sympathetic manager, who had hurried forward on hearing what had happened. "I was strolling up with my young friend here (I hate four-wheeled cabs. and never ride in them) and my luggage was just before me. I trust nothing is damaged; and I hope the poor man will recover—a little later." he addod, thoughtfully. A short period of in- sensibility is always better in these cases—so restful, you know." Have we reserved anything for you, sir?" asked the manager. No—I think not I had no time to wire. Give me the best you ran—not too high up. And I would like a meal: I am much shaken. Please do not worry me: do rhe best you can. If you can manage to seori across to the Hospital. to en- quire about the unfortunate cabman (I paid his far- beforehand) I shall be obliged. In a dazed fashion. Arnold Kenwav allowNl himsplf to b" ushered into a room. and presently fnunrl himself sr>at<>d at a table, with the smiling oland fnce of Ir. Enoch Chickley beaming before him. Silent-footed waiters hovered pbout. and something that tasted good was on a plate before him more than that. wine that sparkled in the light was in a glass at his hand. He dared not remember that, less than half-an-hour ago. he had been a homeless outcast on the Hotel Embank- ment: he swallowed the wine. and smiled in a sickly fashion across at the magician who had worked these wonders. I have registered—and all is serene and com- fortable," said the smooth voice of Mr. Chickley. Quite a nice brand this—isn't it? I remember, when I was a younger man. tasting a wine like this in New York; it ouite brings back old memories." He raised his glass, and bowed across the table. To our better acquaintance "For God's sake listen a moment," whispered Arnold, looking furtively about him. "I'm not used to this sort of thing: apparently you are. If vou don't tell me what vou're going to do, or what you hope from all this, I shall have to get up and shout out to these people who we are and what we are, and the lie we are acting. I can't carry the game on!" Mr. Enoch Chickley said nothing; still smiling, he lifted the bottle beside him, and poured more wine into the glass which stood beside Arnold. Drink that. he said in a low voice, "and listen to me. Don't lose your nerve so early in the game. Arnold Kenway drank the wine, and began to feel, after all, that the game was worth playing, lie heard the smooth, oily voice of Enoch break- ing in upon the silence. Start up, and shout, by all means, my dear boy; and find yourself outside the Hotel Harcourt in the charge of a policeman, within two minutes, said the old. man.. It would at least bo honest" stamncred Arnold, hotiy. ?ied NIr. Chickley, ?- I?t to me, repued Mr Chickley softly. "I gave you, young man, atll I possessed in the world small though it was, the debt re- mains. Exposei yourself, and you expose me; wh ch is a poor return for my hospitality, For- tune has favoured us; the world is before us, and the ball at our feet." They proceeded with a liberal repast in com- parative silence. Mr. Enoch Chickley was par- ticular about the second bottle of wine, and quite i- di^nant because he had a suspio on Wat. it was eort?d he al'o sent ba.ck his coffe3, b?eau? it was not rot enough. It was evident that those who waited upon him were impressed wit,h the fact that this was a very important man indeed. When, at the end of their meal, they were sciated together in the comfortable smoking-room, with a large cigar apiece, and a liqueur before. each, Mr. Chick- lay explained the situation further. "Until the luggage is actually claimed, we are safe; it is a guarantee agal 't anv suspicion on the part of the hotel people. If it should be claimed —weli, then we must make the best of a difficult business, and invent what excuse we can. The cabman can't speak, because Providence ha? put  whic;1 renden  In;]- him into that condition which renders speec-n im- possible; and so far 110 one has ciaimea t.10 JUg- ,ao-e. We are, I admit, in a. somewhat kgn place, but we will play the game like geutlemen." "With no money!" suggested Arnold, with a bitter laugh. "Money is a secondary consideration in a plaoe like this; we get on comfortably with credit. Don't quibble, my dear boy; lean on your Chick- lev, and hope for tlle best." Now we have no reason, and no desire, to ex- plain or to excuse the conduct of Arnold Kenway. All wo would urge is that he had had. four days and nights of homelessness and misery in the great lonely world of London; that he had rubbed shoulders with the lowest outcasts-forlorn, like himself, but more used to hardships; that he dreaded another might of it, unciier any circum- stances. Let it be remonibered, too, that sudden- ly he had been thrust, against his will, into all that I he remembered as having made life pleasant and good before; he was back again into what ne con- sidered his proper position in the world. He who, so :"h.crt a time before, had sat hopeless and famished on a bench in the open air, sat down on a comfortable, well-upholstered seat, smoking an excellent cigar, and looking at those lights across the river at which he had looked so despairingly before. Without making excuses for him, is it to be wondered at that, for a time at least, he let thoughts of right or wrong go to the w.nds, and wa.s content to be comfortable? "A little later on," he thougnt, 111 sEp out. and leave this old rascal, and have done with it. Then, some day—soon, I hope—when I m ri.Ih, I'll come back and pay these people what I owe them I won't take what I can't pay for. After all, this is only borrowing—to give me fresh strength to go on. and make a better fight for it." He had fallen into a light slumber, when ho was rcu-ed by the touch of a hand on his arm. Starting- awake, almost with ti-io belief that he was stll on. the hard bench on the Embankment, he looked round quickly, and gazed into the eyes of Mr. Enoch Chickley. Enoch was as bland and smiling as ever, his voice stiil silky; but his words were startling. I "My dear boy, the crash has come! he said, in a- whisper. Arnold started, fully awake, and looked round. A disturbance of some kind was going on in the hall of the hotel; there was a loud and a-n.gry voic* expostulating, and the manager's smoother tr.i10S endeavouring to explain. "The gentleman who has been so careless about his luggage," said Mr. Chickley, in a low voice, "has turned up. Naturaly, he demands it; let us go out and reason with him." He rose as he pake, drawing Arnold with him. "Don't be a fool t" e.xclaimed Arnold Kenway. "You've got me into this; the best thing we can do is to make, a bolt for it. You get out first; I'll knock down anyone who stands in the way." Mr. Enoch Chiokley turned, and laid his fat white hand", on Arnold's breast, to keep that im- N? o w. my dear boy, petuous young man back. "Now. my dear boy, let's have no violence," he urged, imploringly. "Let us, whatever happens, be mild and gentle; much may be done w.th that. Wo may be able to persuade this geneleman that the luggage is not ¡ his or we may even-" "Don't talk rubbish," said Arnold. "At any rate, I suppose we've got to face the music; come along." Out.F"id,c, in the hall, a tall, thin, doermin,ed- looking man was angrily facing the. manager. Th a tall gentleman was exceedingly well dressed, and had a commandm^ way -ith bim; angry though he was, his voice was gentlemanly in the extreme, and he was evidently one quite easily able to command attention whorl ho wanted to do so- ."i.t i.s no use "My good man," he was avin-, "it s no use tpH:ng me that someone cse has claimed my lug- gage; there has been a great, mistake. I sent it here on a cab; I had an appointment, and in- tended to follow later. You tell me that seine luggage arrived On a cab; that an accident oc- curred; and that that luggage was claimedl by two gentlemen who arrived at the same moment. Where are those gentlemen? I shall be glad to see them." Is anything the matter?" asked Mr. Enoch Clilekley, in his smooth voice, as he stepped for- ward. "I shall be glad to be. of assistance if possiblo. P40 the curious thing was that, instead of the ta'l. thin stranger demanding to know what it had to do with him, or waiting fcr any explanation about the. luggage, he no sooner heard the voice of Enoch than he stopped and faced about, and stared at that venerable gentleman with a drop- ping jaw, and looked, in some confusion, from him towards the manager. In the momentary silence which followed, the manager stepped for- ward. Pardon me, but..I fear there has been some mistake. This gentleman "—he indioated the tall stranger—" sent some luggage here, and seems to suggest that it is the luggage you and! this genitleman claimed." I think not," said Mr. Chickley, sweetly, with his eyes full upon the stranger. "I'm afraid," said the) stranger, after another pause—" I'm very much afraid that I am in fault, after all. Can you tell me what hotel this is?" "The Hotel Harcourt," said the manager. Still looking straight at Enoch Chickley, the stranger said. ;,n a curious low voice—" I am afraid no apology will quite cover my blunder. It will scarcely be believed, but I have come to the wrong hotel. I certainly did send some luggage, but not to the Hotel Harcourt. I beg a thousand pardons. Don't mention it," said Mr. Chicklev, blandly. C-coi iiight I hope you will find your luggage." But the stranger had walked out of the hotel, without once looking round. Mr. Chiokley took the arm of Arnold Kenway, and marched him back to the smoking-room. My dear boy," he said, with a chuckle, we are firmly est:¡.b¡;h!'<1!" (To be continued.)

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