Genre Mystery & Crime. Page - 8

the village there was ever asmile upon his lips and a greeting in his eyes. There was not abeggar upon the country side who did not know that his heart was assoft as his muscles were hard.There was nothing that he liked to talk of more than his oldbattles, but he would stop if he saw his little wife coming, for theone great shadow in her life was the ever-present fear that some dayhe would throw down sledge and rasp and be off to the ring oncemore. And you must be reminded here once for all

He will be so glad to hear that you have come. I had better go and tellhim. Perhaps you will kindly sit down until he is able to come to you,"and with this she departed on her mission.It struck me as a little odd that, considering his anxiety and theapparent urgency of the case, Mr. Weiss should not have been waiting toreceive me. And when several minutes elapsed without his appearing, theoddness of the circumstance impressed me still more. Having no desire,after the journey in the

congratulate you upon----""No, no," Beatrice cried quickly. "Please don't. Perhaps if you tell me your name I may be in a position to help you to find anybody you may chance----" The stranger shook her head as she stood in the doorway. Her voice was low and sweet as she replied. "It does not in the least matter," she said. "You can call me the Slave of the Bond." CHAPTER II The guests had assembled at length, the dinner was in full swing. It would

invariable custom of the house; and sat in a dead silence, that seemed natural to the great sober room.This, however, was not for want of a topic; on the contrary, they had a matter of great importance to discuss, and in fact this was why they dined tete-a-tete. But their tongues were tied for the present; in the first place, there stood in the middle of the table an epergne, the size of a Putney laurel-tree; neither Wardlaw could well see the other, without craning out his neck like a rifleman

strate woman and look in her face. "This woman is not dead.""What!" they both cried, bounding forward. "See, she breathes," continued the former, pointing to her slowly laboring chest. "The villain, whoever he was, did not do his work well; she may be able to tell us something yet." "I do not think so," murmured Mr. Orcutt. "Such a blow as that must have destroyed her faculties, if not her life. It was of cruel force." "However

bably rewards for his capture which, in the aggregate, offered immense inducement to deliver Anthony Trent to justice. How was Trent to know that Sutton the adjutant was financially secure enough to make the sacrifice? Undoubtedly he had seen Sutton and made the desperate leap.Sutton determined to safeguard his interests. The baggage for instance, that should not be searched. There might be in it evidence as damaging as that which the brothers of Joseph put into the younger's sack. It would be

th whom personally I had but a slight acquaintance, although I knew them somewhat by reputation. The younger one, Clinton Browne, is a young artist whose landscapes were beginning to attract wide attention in Boston, and the elder, Charles Herne, a Western gentleman of some literary attainments, but comparatively unknown here in the East. There is nothing about Mr. Herne that would challenge more than passing attention. If you had said of him, "He is well-fleshed, well-groomed, and

Miller said irritably."Lots of silly things there's no accounting for," the agent replied. "And you can't realise the reputation the island's got around this part of the country. And, see here! Don't you be putting me down as foolish too. I've told you what they say. I don't know anything about spooks--never saw one. All I do claim is, there's a kind of a spell on Captain's Island that reaches out for you and--and sort of scares you. That's all I say--a sort of spell you want to

up his breakfast with her own fair hands, happy for the day if her admired lodger conversed with her for a few moments before reading the morning paper. Then Miss Greeb would retire to her own sitting-room and indulge in day dreams which she well knew would never be realised. The romances she wove herself were even more marvellous than those she read in her favourite penny novelettes; but, unlike the printed tales, her romance never culminated in marriage. Poor brainless, silly, pitiful Miss