Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not observe that some ale was poured out in the tumbler when it was brought up?"

"I did not observe it; it might have been so, but I could not say for certain either way."

Mr. Merrivale to the coroner: "My client desires me to state distinctly that a small quantity, about a quarter of a glassful, was already poured out when he went to the tray. He supposes it was done to save the overflow from the bottle."

Coroner: "I will note it."

Evidence continued: "My uncle drank half the ale at a draught, shook his bead, and said: 'It is very bitter, to-night.' We neither made any remark upon it. He likewise took a biscuit and ate it. Soon afterward I rose to go. He would not say good-night to me. Hugh came to the door with me--the study-door--and whispered, 'I'll try to appease him and make it all right for you.' I went straight down-stairs and out of the house. I remember seeing my cousin's coat hanging in the hall; it was a brown-tweed waterproof one; but I did not touch it. The coachman came the following morning with the sad news to my chambers."

Mr. Merrivale: "Are you acting as sole executor, Mr. Wilmot?"

"I am; my cousin is aware of it."

Mr. Walker: "It is illegal to ask for any depositions about the deceased's will here."

Coroner: "I am the best judge of that, Mr. Walker. Anything which throws light upon what we have to find out must be received as evidence."

Mr. Merrivale: "Were you aware what the contents of your late uncle's will were before you opened it at Messrs. Smith and Walker's?"

"I was not; but both Hugh Atherton and myself were led to anticipate what the tenor of it would be."

"Have the results fulfilled your anticipations?"

"I don't consider myself warranted in answering such a question."

Coroner: "Have you any thing else to state, Mr. Wilmot?"

"Nothing, except that I believe in my cousin's innocence."

Mr. John Kavanagh was then called, and, after the usual preliminaries, stated that on his return from a tour in Switzerland on the afternoon of Tuesday, the 23d, he found a note from Mr. Thorneley, which he now produced. (Note read by the coroner and passed on to the jurymen.) That upon receipt of it he had gone to Mr. Thorneley's at the hour appointed, and had been shown at once into that gentleman's study. Had found him very much altered for the worse and aged since last he had seen him, some months since. He looked as if some heavy trouble were upon him, weighing him down. He had transacted the business required, which occupied, he should say, an hour, and had then left him as calm and as well as when he (witness) first entered the room. He had chosen to walk home, and, stopping to light a segar at the corner of Vere street, had met Mr. Atherton coming out of the chemist's shop. Mr. Atherton had offered to accompany him home, but he (Witness) had refused, and they had parted, Mr Atherton stating his intention of coming to see him on the morrow. That the moment after, he had repented his refusal and hurried back to ask him to return; but being near-sighted and the night dark, had not been able to distinguish his figure, and had given up the pursuit. Returning down Vere street, about half-way he had met a female walking very fast, but who in passing had almost stopped, and stared very hard at him. She had on a thick veil, so he could not see her face, nor did he recognize her figure. The circumstance had passed from his mind until detective Jones had told him that Mr. Thorneley's housekeeper had been in Vere street that evening, and seen his meeting with Mr. Atherton, and then it had struck him it might have been she.--(Here Mr. Merrivale was seen to confer very earnestly with the {607} prisoner, and afterward to pass a slip of paper to the coroner, who after reading it bowed, as if in assent, and then beckoned to a policeman, who left the room.) He had gone straight home to his chambers, and being tired went early to bed, and did not wake till very late the following morning, when his clerk had told him the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, and detective Jones had called upon him shortly afterward.

By the coroner: "What was the nature of the business which you transacted with deceased?"

"I am bound over very solemnly not to mention it until a certain time."

"Was it a will you called the two servants to witness?"

"I am not at liberty to answer. I pass my word as a gentleman and a man of honor that in no way do I consider this to affect my friend Mr. Atherton's present position; and that when it does I shall consider myself free to speak."

Mr Walker: "We shall compel you, Mr. Kavanagh, to speak in another place than this. The breach of etiquette you have committed will not be passed over by us as the family and confidential legal advisers of the deceased gentleman."

"We shall both act as we think right, Mr. Walker."

The prisoner here in a very hollow voice said "For God's sake, and for the sake of one who is dear to us both, I entreat you, John Kavanagh, to reveal any thing that may help to clear an innocent man from this frightful imputation."

"I will, Hugh, so help me God! But it would avail you nothing to speak now."

Coroner: "Have you anything further to state?"

"Nothing, save my most solemn religious conviction that Mr. Atherton is innocent, and that he is the victim of the foulest plot."

Mr. Walker here appealed to the coroner, and said he objected to such insinuations being made there; that Mr. Kavanagh had done his best to criminate the prisoner, and that he was now trying to cast the blame upon others.

Mr. Kavanagh was about to make some violent answer, when the coroner called to order.

Mr. Merrivale: "Will you have the goodness, Mr. Kavanagh, to look toward the end of the room, and see if you identify any one there?"

Mr. Kavanagh: "My God! It is she!"

Coroner: "Who?"

"The woman I met in Vere street that night."

Standing opposite to the witness, with the light full upon her, was a female figure, closely veiled.

"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" it was the woman who spoke, loudly, vehemently.

Coroner to witness: "I see you are using your eyeglass now; were you using it when you say you met this person in Vere street?"

"I was."

"Could you swear that the figure standing before you now and the woman you met are one and the same?"

"I would swear that the appearance of that woman standing before me now and that of the figure I met is one and the same--the same height, the same carriage, the same veiled face."

"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" repeated the woman, with a passionate gesture.

Coroner: "Mrs. Haag, you can retire." (It was the housekeeper.)

Mr. Walker: "I don't see how this affects the case."

Mr. Merrivale: "Probably not, sir; but you will see by and by. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Coroner."

Mr. Kavanagh is replaced by Inspector Jackson, detective officer, who deposed that from information received at Scotland Yard on the morning of the 24th instant, he had been desired by his superintendent to proceed to 100 Wimpole street, the residence {608} of the deceased gentleman, and examine into the case, accompanied by detective Jones. From information received from the housekeeper and other servants, and after a conference with the surgeon called in, his suspicions had fallen upon Mr. Atherton. He had left a policeman in charge from the nearest station-house, and gone with Jones direct to Mr. Atherton's chambers in the Temple. On breaking the nature of his visit to that gentleman, together with the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, he had been terribly overcome, and exclaimed that he was an innocent man, God was his witness; that he would not have hurt a hair of the old man's head; but certainly he had been angry with him the night before. Cautioned not to say anything which might criminate himself, Mr. Atherton had again said, in very solemn tones: "My God, thou knowest I am innocent!" Witness had searched Mr. Atherton's room and clothes; in the pocket of his coat had found a small empty paper labelled STRYCHNINE--POISON; with the name of "Davis, chemist, 20 Vere street, corner of Oxford street."--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale as to which coat-pocket the packet was found in, replied the overcoat which Mr. Atherton wore on the previous evening.

By a juryman: "How do you know it was the identical coat worn that evening?"

"The man-servant, John Barker, swears to it; he took it from Mr. Atherton when he came to Mr. Thorneley's house, and hung it up in the hall to dry."

The prisoner: "Yes, I did wear that coat; but I know nothing of the paper found in it."

By the coroner: "Have you been in communication with the chemist in Vere street?"

Witness: "I have, sir; he remembers--"

Mr. Merrivale: "I object to this evidence coming from the mouth of Mr. Inspector. The chemist is here and should be examined himself."

Mr. Walker, one of the solicitors of deceased "I think that the evidence should be received from both the inspector and the chemist."

Mr. Merrivale: "I still object."

The coroner: "On what ground, Mr. Merrivale?"

Mr. Merrivale: "On the ground that the inspector having a preconceived notion when he communicated with the chemist, the latter may have been misled by his questions. I should at least wish that Davis should be examined first, and his evidence received direct."

The coroner: "Very well. Is there anything else, Mr. Inspector?"

"Nothing else, except that Mr. Atherton denied all knowledge at once of the paper found."

By Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not find also a bottle of camphorated spirits?"

"I did; but on the table. It was a fresh bottle, unopened, and bore the same label, from Mr. Davis's." (Witness dismissed.)

Mr. Merrivale here demanded to have the man Barker recalled, which was done.

Mr. Merrivale: "Can you swear to the overcoat which Mr. Atherton wore the last evening he came to Wimpole street?"

"Certainly, sir. It was a brown tweed waterproof, with deep pockets. I know it well."

"Is that the coat?" (Coat produced.)

"It is, sir."

"Can you swear to it?"

"I can, sir."

"How long was it between the time Mr. Wilmot went away and the time Mr. Atherton left the house?"

"About half an hour or three quarters, I should say."

"Did you let him out?"

"No, sir."

"Nor Mr. Atherton?'

"No, sir."

"Did you hear or know of any one being in the hall for any length of time whilst Mr. Atherton was with his uncle?"

"No one could have been in the hall, sir, we servants were all at supper."

"Was the housekeeper with you?"

"No, sir; she has her supper in her own sitting-room always."

"Then how are you sure that she did not go into the hall?"

"I should have heard her door open and her footsteps pass along the passage. The servants' hall door was open that I might hear master's bell."

"You feel certain of this?"

"I do, sir."

"I have no more to ask this witness, Mr. Coroner."

Thomas Davis, chemist, was then called. He deposed that on the evening of the 23d he perfectly well remembered a gentleman coming into his shop and buying a small bottle of spirits of camphor. Could not swear to him, but thinks it may have been the prisoner. It was a tall gentleman. (Upon being shown the bottle of camphor, immediately identified it as the one sold. The paper found in Mr. Atherton's pocket was now produced, and he likewise identified it as coming from his shop.) The paper and label were the same as he used.--Questioned as to whether he recollected selling any strychnine either on or before the 23d, replied he could not remember selling any; but that he had found a memorandum in his day-book of one grain sold on the 23d. (Sensation.) Was quite sure it had been sold, or the entry would not have been made; always made those entries himself. His assistant reported to him of anything sold during his absence from the shop, and he then entered it in his day-book as a ready-money transaction. His assistant might have sold the strychnine on that day; but he had questioned him and found he did not remember any particulars. Could swear that he himself remembered nothing about it.--by Mr. Merrivale: Was generally absent from the shop an hour at dinner-time--from one to two--and from five to half-past for tea; again at night from nine to half-past. Closed at ten.

Mr. Merrivale here asked that Mr. Wilmot and Mrs. Haag might severally be brought in; to which Mr. Walker objected. The objection was overruled by the coroner, and Mr. Wilmot was summoned.

Mr. Merrivale: "Do you remember having seen this gentleman before, Mr. Davis?"

"I do not, sir."

"Nor remember his coming into your shop?"

"No, sir."

The housekeeper was then called, with the same results.

Examination of witness continued: His assistant was a remarkably steady and able young man, intrusted with making up very important prescriptions; his word could be relied on; had been with him for five years. He himself was a licensed member of Apothecaries' Hall.

The last witness summoned was James Ball, assistant to Mr. Davis, the chemist. In reply to the coroner, he never remembered having sold any strychnine on the 23d, though he might have done so; in which case he would report it to Mr. Davis, who would have entered it in the day-book. Was in the habit of mentioning each item as soon after it was sold as opportunity permitted. Could not identify either Mr. Wilmot or Mrs. Haag as having seen them in the shop.--By Mr. Walker: Remembered the prisoner coming into the shop on the evening of the 23d; they did not often see such a tall gentleman. His employer, Mr. Davis, had served him with the camphor.

By Mr. Merrivale: "Do you mean to say that a customer whom you did not serve, buying camphor, made an impression on your mind, and yet you have no recollection of any one coming to your shop and asking for such a remarkable and dangerous thing as strychnine?"

After a moment's consideration:

"I remember that gentleman," (pointing to the prisoner,) "because I wondered what his height might be, and what a jolly thing it must be to be so tall, especially with such a high counter to serve over." (Laughter. James Ball was considerably below the middle height) "I don't recollect anything at all about the strychnine."

By the coroner: "It is a question probably of life or death, James Ball, to that gentleman, Mr. Atherton; and I conjure you to strive to the utmost of your power to call to mind any circumstance concerning the sale of that poison which may throw some light upon the subject Take your time now to consider, for I see you can recollect things."

After some moments of dead silence, James Ball replied, "I remember nothing further than what I have already stated."

This closed the evidence, and coroner, summing up, addressed the jury. He commented upon the awfulness of the crime which had been committed; on the fearful increase of the use of poisons of every kind for the purpose of taking away human life. He said in this case the principal facts they had to deal with were, that it was proved on evidence that poison had been administered to deceased in the bitter ale, which he had taken before going to bed. That the poison was pronounced to be strychnine, which it was well known would probably not take effect until an hour or so after it had been imbibed. That the glass of bitter ale in which the strychnine had been detected was poured out and given to deceased by his nephew, Mr. Hugh Atherton, in presence of his other nephew, Mr. Wilmot. That it had been proved by medical evidence that in the ale remaining in the bottle no strychnine had been detected. All suspicions therefore were confined to the ale which had been poured out. That Mr. Atherton had been heard to use angry, if not threatening, language to the deceased, (he repeated the words,) and had been seen by two witnesses coming out of the chemist's shop kept by the identical man whose name was on the paper labelled Strychnine, and found in the prisoner's pocket. The prisoner's legal adviser had stated that a portion of the ale was already poured out in the tumbler, when he (the prisoner) approached the table for the purpose of helping his uncle; but no evidence had been adduced of the fact. Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, had stated to the contrary. Still the prisoner was entitled to the benefit of the doubt. There had been positive evidence that the deceased had died from the effects of poison; it rested with the jury to decide whether the other evidence was sufficiently conclusive to warrant their finding a verdict against the prisoner as having administered the poison.

After a consultation of some quarter of an hour, the jury returned a verdict of Wilful Murder against Mr. Hugh Atherton.

Merrivale brought me the news in that dull back-room where I waited, heaven only knows with what crushing, heart-sick anxiety, and we left the house--that doomed house of death, of woe and desolation to the living.

The crowd outside had thickened and densified; but their cries and clamors were meaningless sounds for me. As we stood on the pavement whilst Merrivale hailed a cab, I felt something thrust into my hand--a piece of paper. I looked round and saw a man disappearing amongst the throng, who presently turned and held up his hand to me. He was in plain clothes and somewhat disguised; but I recognized Jones the detective. When in the cab I unfolded the paper, and read, hastily scrawled in pencil:

"Meet me, sir, please, on the Surrey end of London Bridge to-night at nine o'clock."
"A. Jones."

CHAPTER VI.

IN BLUE-ANCHOR LANE.

Nine o'clock was striking, as I hurried along the footway of London Bridge, hustled and jostled by the many passengers who seem to be forever treading their weary road of business, care, or pleasure--for even pleasure brings its toil; nine o'clock resounding loud and clear in the night-air from the dome of St. Paul's, and echoed from the neighboring church-steeples. It sounds romantic enough to please the most enthusiastic devourers of pre-Radcliffe novels, or to capture the imagination of the most ardent votaries of fiction. But it was far otherwise to me on the night of that Thursday which had seen Hugh Atherton branded with the name of murderer. It was far otherwise to me--weighed down with the crushing knowledge that the companion of my youth, the friend of my later years, although an innocent man, was being gradually hurried on to a felon's death; and that I--I who loved him so well--had helped to his destruction, though Heaven could witness how unwillingly and unconsciously. No; there was no romance for me that night as I dragged my weary steps over the bridge, with the sight of him before my eyes, and the sound of heart-bursting grief from the lips of that poor stricken girl, his betrothed bride, ringing in my ears; for I had been to tell her the results of this day's work. Oh! why had I not yielded to his wish the evening I met Hugh Atherton in that fatal street, and taken him home with me? Why had I not more earnestly followed up the impulse--nay, dare I not call it inspiration?--to return after him and bid him come back with me? Ah me! my selfishness, my blindness--could any remorse ever atone for them and the terrible evil they had brought about? My God, thou knowest how my heart cried out to thee then in bitterness and sorrow: "Smite me with thy righteous judgments; but spare him--spare her!"

And now what new scene in this drama of life was I going to see unfolded? I could not tell; I knew nothing; I could only pray that if Providence pointed out to me any track by which I might penetrate the awful mystery that hung round us, I might pursue it with all fidelity, with utter forgetfulness of self. I had gone with Merrivale after we left Wimpole street to the House of Detention where Atherton was lodged, and desired him to ask that I should see Hugh; but he had come out looking puzzled and perplexed, and said: "I can't make it out; Atherton refuses to see you, and gives no reason except that it is 'best not.'" No help was there, then, but to trust to time and unwearied exertion to remove the cloud between us.

I found Jones waiting for me at the other end of the bridge, and anxiously on the look-out.

"I am right glad to see you, sir; I was fearful you mightn't come, seeing that I gave you no reason for doing so."

"I trusted you sufficiently, Jones, to belive you wouldn't have brought me on a useless errand at such a time of awful anxiety."

"Bless you, sir, I wouldn't--not for a thousand pounds; and I've had that offered to me in my day by parties as wished to get rid of me or shut me up. No, indeed, sir; I'd not add to your trouble if so be I could not lighten it. But we have no time to lose, and we have a goodish bit before us. You asked me this morning whether I knew any thing of a Mr. de Vos. I did not then, but I do now; and a strange chance threw me across him. If, sir, you will trust yourself entirely to me to-night, I think I can be of use to you. But you must confide in me, and allow me to take the lead in everything. And first, will you let me ask you one or two questions?"

I told him he might ask anything he pleased; if I could not answer, I would tell him so; that I would trust him implicitly.

"Then, sir, will you condescend to honor me by coming home first for a few minutes? My missus expects us. She's in a terrible way about Mr. Atherton: she never forgets past kindness."

We turned off the bridge, straight down Wellington street, High street Borough, and then into King street, where Jones stopped before a respectable-looking private house, and knocked. The door was opened by his wife--with whom, under other circumstances, I had been acquainted before--and we entered their neat little front-parlor. Evidently we were expected, for supper was laid--homely, but substantial, and temptingly clean.

"You must excuse us, sir," said Jones; "but I fancied it was likely you had taken little enough to-day, and I told Jane to have something ready for us. Please to eat, Mr. Kavanagh; we have a short journey before us, and I want you to have all your wits and energies about you."

I was faint and sick, true enough; for I had touched nothing save a biscuit and a glass of wine since the morning; but my stomach seemed to loathe food; and though I drew to the table, not wishing to offend the good people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel would choke me. Jones cut up the cold ham and chicken in approved style, whilst his wife busied herself with slicing off thin rounds of bread and butter; but I toyed with my knife and fork, and could not eat. Not so Jones; he took down incredible quantities of all that was before him with the zest of a man who knows he is going to achieve luck's victory. Presently he threw down his tools, and looked hard at me.

"This'll never do, sir; you must eat."

I shook my head and smiled.

"Jane," said he to his wife, "bring out Black Peter; no one ever needed him more than Mr. Kavanagh."

Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and brought forth a tapery-necked bottle, out of which her husband very carefully poured some liquid into a wineglass, and then as carefully corked it up again.

"Drink this, sir; I've never known it to fail yet."

I lifted the glass to my lips. "Why, it's the primest Curaçoa!" I cried.

"That it may be, sir, for all I know. A poor German, to whom I once rendered a service, sent me two bottles, and I've found it the best cordial I ever tasted. I call it Black Peter--his name was Peter, and he was uncommonly black, to be sure--but I never heard its right name before. Drink it off, sir, and you'll feel a world better presently."

I did, and the effects were as Jones prognosticated. The cold, sick shivering left me, and I was able in a little while to take some food.

"Now, Jane," said the good man to his wife, when he saw I was getting on all right, "shut up your ears; Mr. Kavanagh and I are going to talk business."

Mrs. Jones laughed, picked up some needle-work, and sat down to a small table by the fire.

"My wife's a true woman, sir, in every thing but her tongue; she don't talk: I'll back her against Sir Richard himself for keeping dark on a secret case. Now, sir, will you please to tell me, if you can, why you are anxious to find out about this Mr. de Vos?"

I related to him about my meeting De Vos at my sister's, what I had heard and witnessed in Swain's Lane, the impressions made upon me then, and how I had caught sight of the man outside the police-court on the preceding day. Jones listened very attentively, and made notes of it all.

"Exactly," said he, when I ended by saying that Mr. Wilmot had denied all knowledge of De Vos and the rendezvous in Swain's Lane. "Just what I expected. Of course he would."

"What! Do you think he did know, and that it was Wilmot's voice I heard?"

"I think nothing, sir" said be, with a curious smile; "but I guess a good deal. We have a terribly-tangled skein to unravel; but I think in following up this man we have got the right end of it. I must now tell you how I stumbled upon him to-day. I heard from inspector Keene that he was engaged by Mr. Merrivale to see into this murder of old Mr. Thorneley; and knowing how partial I was to Mr. Atherton--good reason too--he asked me if I'd like to help him, and if so, he'd speak about me to Sir Richard Mayne. I said I would, above all things, for I'd had a hand in taking him, though I believed he was innocent; and now I'd give much to help him back to his liberty again. To cut short with the story, it was settled I should hang about the house to-day during the inquest in disguise, to pick up any stray information that might be let drop; for there's a deal more known, sir, about rich folks and their households by such people as those who were crowded round the house today than ever you'd think for; and we gather much of our most valuable information by mixing in these crowds unknown, and listening to the casual gossip that goes on in them. So I made myself up into a decent old guy, and took my way to Wimpole street. Whilst waiting to cross Oxford street two men came up behind me, and I heard a few words drop which made me turn round to look at them. Sure enough, one answered most perfectly your description of this Mr. De Vos. I thought to myself, 'Here's game worth following;' and I did follow, and heard them make an appointment for to-night on this side the water. Now, sir, do you see why I asked you to meet me?'

"I do. We must be present at the meeting."

"Just so, sir; and we have no time to lose, for the hour mentioned was soon after ten o'clock. If you'll take nothing else we will go. We must go made up; and you'll trust entirely to me."

"You mean disguised?"

"I do, sir; if you'll come up-stairs, I'll give you what is necessary."

Up-stairs we went, and Jones produced from a chest of drawers a rough common seaman's jacket, a pair of duck trowsers, a woollen comforter, a tarpaulin hat, and a false black beard, in which he rigged me out; and then proceeded to make similar change in his own attire, with the exception of a wig of shaggy red hair and a pair of whiskers to match.

"Leave your watch, sir, and any little articles of jewelry you may have about you, in my wife's charge; keep your hat well slouched over your face and your hands in your pockets, give a swing and swagger to your walk, and you'll do."

"Why, where upon earth are we going, Jones?"

"To Blue-Anchor Lane, sir, if you know where that very fashionable quarter lies."

I did not know exactly where it was, saying from police-reports, which named it as one of the lowest parts of that low district lying between Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I had been somewhere near it once, having occasion to call on one of the clergy belonging to the Catholic Church in Parker's Row; but that was quite an aristocratic part, for a wonder, compared with Blue-Anchor Lane. Yes, Parker's Row I had visited; and, thanks to my having grown and "gentlefolked" to the height of six feet odd, I had managed to pull the bell and get admitted to the convent behind the church, where dwell the good Sisters of Mercy, walled-in all tight and trim. But down Blue-Anchor Lane I had never penetrated; and I asked Jones if it were not considered a favorite haunt for characters of the worst description.

"It is so, sir; and we must be careful and cautious to-night in all we do." I noticed that he put his staff and alarum in his pocket, and furnished me with similar implements. "In case of necessity, sir," he said, {614} laughing, "you must act as special constable with me. I wouldn't take you into the smallest danger; but, you see, I don't know but what your presence is of absolute necessity, and that you may be able to gather a clue in this case quicker than I should. Not that I yield in quickness at twigging most things to any man," said Detective Jones, with a bit of professional pride quite pardonable; "but you must identify the man for certain yourself, sir, before I can act in the matter with anything like satisfaction."

It was just upon ten o'clock when we left King street, and proceeded to London Bridge; whence we took the train to Spa Road. It takes, as every one knows, but a few minutes in the transit; and leaving that dark, dismal, break-neck hole of a station, we turned to the left up Spa Road, down Jamaica Row, and so into Blue-Anchor Lane. It is needless to describe what that place is at night; it is needless to picture in words all the degrading vice that walks forth unmasked in some of the streets of this capital, which ranks so high amidst the great cities o the world. Is our exterior morality to be so far behind, so infinitely below, that of tribes and nations on whom we stoop to trample? Can such things be, and we not waken from our lethargic sleep, remembering what our account will one day be? Can our rulers so calmly eat and drink, take their pleasure, hunt their game, pursue their gentlemanlike sports, knowing, as assuredly they do too well, that thousands of their people are living lives more degraded, more brutal, more shamelessly inhuman, more full of sin, ignorance, and every kind of squalor and misery, than the wildest savages we have set our soldiers to hunt out of the lands in which God placed them?

"What can the man be doing in such a place as this?" I whispered to Jones, as he stopped before the door of a small low-looking house of entertainment, half coffee-shop and half public-house, that rejoiced in the name of "Noah's Ark."

"That's just what we've got to find out, sir. Somehow it strikes me he's better acquainted with such haunts as these than you and I are with Regent street or Piccadilly. If I haven't seen his face before, and that not ten yards from the Old Bailey, I'm blest if I was ever more mistaken in my life. But hush! here he is."

And swaggering along, with his hat stuck on one side, and murmuring a verse of "Rory O'Moore," came Mr. de Vos, my sister Elinor's "treasure-trove," evidently somewhat airy in the upper regions, and elated by good cheer. Jones had taken out a short clay pipe, and whilst seemingly intent on filling it I saw he was watching De Vos with a keen observant glance. The latter gentleman was far from being intoxicated; he was merely what is called "elevated," and quite wide awake enough to be wary of anything going on around him. I saw him start perceptibly as his eye fell upon me, though my slouched hat and high collar must have gone a good way toward concealing my features.

"Fine night, mate," said Jones in a bluff, loud voice, lighting and pulling vigorously at his pipe.

"Deed and it is so," answered De Vos, halting just opposite to us, and once more turning his scrutiny upon me. "Are you game for a dhrop of whiskey?" addressing himself especially to me.

I was about to answer in feigned tones, when Jones took the word out of my mouth, and replied: "No use asking him--he's too love-sick just now to care for drink; he's parted with his sweetheart, and is off for the West-Indies by five in the morning from the Docks."

Something now seemed to attract De Vos's attention to Jones, for he became suddenly very grave.

"I've not seen you here before," said he, peering into the detective's face.

"May be you have, may be you haven't. I don't need to ask any man's leave to drink a pint at 'Noah's Ark,' and watch a game of skittles."

This, as Jones told me afterward, was quite a random shot; however, it took effect.

"I believe you," said De Vos with all the boastfulness of his nature. "You'll not see a betther bowler through the country entirely than meself. I'll back the odds against any man this side the Channel, and bedad to it. I dare say now it's here on Monday last you were to see me play?"

"Ay, ay, mate," sang out Jones; "right enough."

"Ah! thin it was small shiners I went in for then; but I'll lay a couple of fivers now against a brad, and play you fair to-morrow against any of them in there," with a back-handed wave to the house, whence unmistakable sounds of noisy mirth were proceeding. "Is it done?"

"I'll consider your offer--shiver my timbers but I will!" said Jones, with a burst of Jack-tar-ism--"and let you know in the morning."

"Just as you please; you pays your money and you takes your choice;" and nodding to Jones, who responded to the salute in approved style, De Vos passed into the tap-room of the "Ark."

"Is it he?" hurriedly whispered Jones when he was out of hearing.

"Yes, without doubt," answered I, in the same tones.

"Then follow me, sir; and keep silent unless I speak to you;" and we likewise entered through the swing-doors of the gayly-lighted bar.

A glance sufficed to show us that the man we sought was not there; but Jones was far from being disconcerted; indeed he seemed most thoroughly up to the mark in the task before him, and threw himself into the part he had assigned himself with all the genius and facility of a Billington or Toole. Three or four men with physiognomies that would not have disgraced the hangman's rope were drinking, smoking, and exchanging low badinage with a flashy-looking young woman, who stood behind the bar-counter. Woman, did I say? Angels pity her! There was little of womanly nature left in the fierce glitter of her eyes, in the hard lines of premature age which dissipation and sin and woe had left carved upon her forehead and around her mouth. Little enough of this though, no doubt, thought Detective Jones, intent upon his own purposes, as he quickly made up to her, and asked with all the swaggering audacity of a "jolly tar," for two stiff glasses of the primest pine-apple rum-and-water.

Jones extracted a long clay pipe from the lot standing before us in a broken glass, and passed it to me, and handed his pouch of tobacco, with an expressive glance that told me I was to smoke. Whilst filling the pipe and lighting it, the woman returned with the rum-and-water, which she placed ungraciously before us with a bang and clatter that caused the liquid to spill out of the glasses.

"Look here, miss," said Jones in his most insinuating tones; "I'll forgive you for upsetting the grog, and give you five bob to buy a blue ribbon for your pretty hair, if you'll manage to get me and my mate a snug comer inside there," pointing to a door on the left, whence issued voices; "for we've a bit of money business to settle to-night, and he's off first thing in the morning for the Indies."

The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then holding out her hand for the promised tip, she beckoned us to pass inside the bar, and led the way to the door. Before she opened it she said in a low voice:

"I am doing as much as my place is worth; but I want the money; take the table in the corner at the top here; keep yourselves quiet, and don't take no notice of nobody, least of all of him who'll be next you."

She now opened the door, and I saw Jones slip some more money into her hand, which she received with a short grunt and a nod, and then closed the door upon us.

The room was divided like that of an ordinary coffee-shop into box compartments; the one in the right-hand corner by the door was empty, and we entered it, carrying our glasses and pipes with us. We seated ourselves at the end of the two benches opposite each other, and then glanced round. In the box vis-à-vis were two rough-looking fellows, whom I took to be real followers of our pretended calling--the sea. They returned our gaze suspiciously enough, and we could hear one whisper to the other, "Who's them coves?" and the answer "Dunno; none of us. " But the next moment my attention was diverted to the voices in the box next to ours.

"Did you see her?" It was De Vos who spoke, I felt sure.

"Not I, my God! not I," answered a deep hoarse voice. "It's ten years since she and I met, and I'd go to my grave sooner than we should meet again. Mind you, the day when her cold cruel eyes rest on me will be a fatal day for me. Faugh! I've passed through as much bloodshed as it's ever given one man to encounter in his life, and never flinched; but I tell you, Sullivan, the thought of meeting her face to face seems to freeze the life-blood of my heart."

"Do you think she had a hand in this, O'Brian?"

"Who can tell? She did not pause once; what should stop her again?"

"The fear of you."

"She sees no reason to fear. She believes I'm still over there, where she sent me."

"And the young fellow, my man, does he know anything?"

"Again how can I tell? But I should say not. How could she enlighten him?"

"Then he is--"

"Their son."

A pause succeeded. Meanwhile Jones had engaged in a sort of dumb-show with me to throw the men opposite off the scent, by passing papers and money backwards and forwards, and apparently making calculations with his pencil; in reality I saw he was taking notes. Presently De Vos spoke again.

"Well, let's drink to the heir, old boy; and so long as I can make him play the piper, why thin it's myself that will, and bedad to him."

His Irishisms, be it observed, were intermittent.

"Long life to the heir!" cried the two voices simultaneously; and there was a clash of glasses.

"What's the time of day by your ticker?" asked De Vos a few moments afterward.

"Just upon eleven. The lad was to be here by then, wasn't he?"

"Yes, by eleven. I'd like to know what he wants with me now."

Jones here took up his cap, buttoned his coat, quietly opened the door, and went out; I following him, of course. He threw a good-humored nod to the woman, who still stood behind the bar, and I did the same; but he never spoke until we were some yards from "Noah's ark."

"You may be thankful, sir," he then said in a low voice, "to have got out safely and unmolested. That's the worst haunt of some of the worst characters in London; and they're banded together so as to shut out every one as don't belong to them. There's been a Providence, sir, in it all," raising his cap, "depend upon it. Now we must see if we can stop this lad whom they are expecting. We'll talk the matter over afterward."

Just then a boy came up running at full speed.

"Halt!" cried Jones, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder. "What makes you so late?"

"What's the odds to you? Let me go," replied the boy, with a mixture of impudence and cunning in his face. "I'm not not bound for you."

"You're bound for 'Noah's Ark,' though."

"Are you Mr. Sullivan?"

"Of course I am."

"Oh! then here's the letter, and you're to see if it's all right."

"All right," said Detective Jones, opening the note and glancing at its contents; "tell the gentleman I'll be there. Here's for you, young Codlings," dropping a half-crown into the boy's hand.

"Five shillings, and not a stiver less, is my fare."

"Here you are then, you small imp of iniquity;" and another coin of similar value found its way into the ragamuffin's pocket.

He cut a caper, turned head over heels, and was gone.

And now Jones tore on breathlessly till we were safe out of Blue-Anchor Lane and had reached Paradise Row, where a policeman was standing at the corner. Jones took him aside for a minute, and then rejoined me.

"We'll hail the first cab, sir, in Spa Road, and drive to your home, if you've no objection."

This we did; and as soon as we had started he took a small candle-lantern from his pocket, lit it, and then handed me the note to read which he had taken from the boy. It contained but few words; no names used, no address, no signature, and simply desired the person addressed to meet the writer the following day at the usual place and hour. What clue was there in that to the dark mystery we were bent on solving? Only this, and I put it into words:

"Great heavens! it is Lister Wilmot's handwriting!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

[ORIGINAL.]

THE MARTYR.